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A  VI SIT  TO 
THREE  FRONTS 

GLIMPSES  OF  THE  BRITISH 
ITALIAN  AND  FRENCH  LINES 

SIR  ARTHUR  CONAN  DOYLE 


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A  VISIT  TO  THREE  FRONTS 

ARTHUR     CONAN      DOYLE 


By  ARTHUR  CON  AN  DOYLE 


A  VISIT  TO  THREE  FRONTS 
THE  VALLEY  OF  FEAR 
THE  POISON  BELT 
THE  LOST  WORLD 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


A  VISIT  TO 
THREE  FRONTS 

GLIMPSES  OF  THE   BRITISH 
ITALIAN  AND  FRENCH  LINES 

BY 
ARTHUR   CONAN   DOYLE 

Author  of  "The  Valley  of  Fear?"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


|d& 


Copyright,  1916, 
By  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES  OF  AMERICA 


PREFACE 

IN  the  course  of  May  1916,  the  Italian 
authorities  expressed  a  desire  that 
some  independent  observer  from  Great 
Britain  should  visit  their  lines  and  report 
his  impressions.  It  was  at  the  time  when 
our  brave  and  capable  allies  had  sustained 
a  set-back  in  the  Trentino  owing  to  a  sud- 
den concentration  of  the  Austrians,  sup- 
ported by  very  heavy  artillery.  I  was 
asked  to  undertake  this  mission.  In  order 
to  carry  it  out  properly,  I  stipulated  that 
I  should  be  allowed  to  visit  the  British 
lines  first,  so  that  I  might  have  some 
standard  of  comparison.  The  War  Office 
kindly  assented  to  my  request.  Later  I 
obtained  permission  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
French  front  as  well.  Thus  it  was  my 
great  good  fortune,  at  the  very  crisis  of 
the  war,  to  visit  the  battle  line  of  each  of 

[5] 


PREFACE 

the  three  great  Western  allies.  I  only 
wish  that  it  had  been  within  my  power  to 
complete  my  experiences  in  this  seat  of 
war  by  seeing  the  gallant  little  Belgian 
army  which  has  done  so  remarkably  well 
upon  the  extreme  left  wing  of  the  hosts  of 
freedom. 

My  experiences  and  impressions  are 
here  set  down,  and  may  have  some  small 
effect  in  counteracting  those  mischievous 
misunderstandings  and  mutual  belittle- 
ments  which  are  eagerly  fomented  by  our 
cunning  enemy. 

Arthur  Conan  Doyle. 

CltOWBOROUGH, 

July  1916. 


[6] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Glimpse  of  the  British  Army  ...  11 
A  Glimpse  of  the  Italian  Army  ...  38 
A  Glimpse  of  the  French  Line       ...     60 


[7] 


A  VISIT  TO  THREE  FRONTS 


A  VISIT  TO  THREE 
FRONTS 


A   GLIMPSE    OF    THE 
BRITISH    ARMY 


IT  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  write  from 
the  front.  You  know  that  there  are 
several  courteous  but  inexorable  gentle- 
men who  may  have  a  word  in  the  matter, 
and  their  presence  "imparts  but  small  ease 
to  the  style."  But  above  all  you  have  the 
twin  censors  of  your  own  conscience  and 
common  sense,  which  assure  you  that,  if 
all  other  readers  fail  you,  you  will  cer- 
tainly find  a  most  attentive  one  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Haupt-Quartier. 
An  instructive  story  is  still  told  of  how  a 
certain  well-meaning  traveller  recorded 
his  satisfaction  with  the  appearance  of 

[11] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

the  big  guns  at  the  retiring  and  peaceful 
village  of  Jamais,  and  how  three  days 
later,  by  an  interesting  coincidence,  the 
village  of  Jamais  passed  suddenly  off  the 
map  and  dematerialised  into  brickdust 
and  splinters. 

I  have  been  with  soldiers  on  the  warpath 
before,  but  never  have  I  had  a  day  so 
crammed  with  experiences  and  impres- 
sions as  yesterday.  Some  of  them  at  least 
I  can  faintly  convey  to  the  reader,  and  if 
they  ever  reach  the  eye  of  that  gentleman 
at  the  Haupt-Quartier  they  will  give  him 
little  joy.  For  the  crowning  impression 
of  all  is  the  enormous  imperturbable  con- 
fidence of  the  Army  and  its  extraordinary 
efficiency  in  organisation,  administration, 
material,  and  personnel.  I  met  in  one  day 
a  sample  of  many  types,  an  Army  com- 
mander, a  corps  commander,  two  di- 
visional commanders,  staff  officers  of 
many  grades,  and,  above  all,  I  met  re- 
peatedly the  two  very  great  men  whom 
Britain  has  produced,  the  private  soldier 
and  the  regimental  officer.     Everywhere 

[12] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF    THE   BRITISH    ARMY 

and  on  every  face  one  read  the  same  spirit 
of  cheerful  bravery.  Even  the  half -mad 
cranks  whose  absurd  consciences  prevent 
them  from  barring  the  way  to  the  devil 
seemed  to  me  to  be  turning  into  men  un- 
der the  prevailing  influence.  I  saw  a  batch 
of  them,  neurotic  and  largely  be-spec- 
tacled,  but  working  with  a  will  by  the 
roadside.  They  will  volunteer  for  the 
trenches  yet. 

^r  *  *  ^9* 

If  there  are  pessimists  among  us  they 
are  not  to  be  found  among  the  men  who 
are  doing  the  work.  There  is  no  foolish 
bravado,  no  under-rating  of  a  dour  oppo- 
nent, but  there  is  a  quick,  alert,  confident 
attention  to  the  job  in  hand  which  is  an 
inspiration  to  the  observer.  These  brave 
lads  are  guarding  Britain  in  the  present. 
See  to  it  that  Britain  guards  them  in  the 
future !  We  have  a  bad  record  in  this  mat- 
ter. It  must  be  changed.  They  are  the 
wards  of  the  nation,  both  officers  and  men. 
Socialism  has  never  had  an  attraction  for 
me,  but  I  should  be  a  Socialist  to-morrow 
[13] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE    FRONTS 

if  I  thought  that  to  ease  a  tax  on  wealth 
these  men  should  ever  suffer  for  the  time 
or  health  that  they  gave  to  the  public 
cause. 

"Get  out  of  the  car.  Don't  let  it  stay 
here.  It  may  be  hit."  These  words  from 
a  staff  officer  give  you  the  first  idea  that 
things  are  going  to  happen.  Up  to  then 
you  might  have  been  driving  through  the 
black  country  in  the  Walsall  district  with 
the  population  of  Aldershot  let  loose  upon 
its  dingy  roads.  "Put  on  this  shrapnel 
helmet.  That  hat  of  yours  would  infuri- 
ate the  Boche" — this  was  an  unkind  al- 
lusion to  the  only  uniform  which  I  have 
a  right  to  wear.  "Take  this  gas  helmet. 
You  won't  need  it,  but  it  is  a  standing  or- 
der.   Now  come  on!" 

We  cross  a  meadow  and  enter  a  trench. 
Here  and  there  it  comes  to  the  surface 
again  where  there  is  dead  ground.  At  one 
such  point  an  old  church  stands,  with  an 
unexploded  shell  sticking  out  of  the  wall. 
A  century  hence  folk  will  journey  to  see 
that  shell.     Then  on  again  through  an 

[14] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   BRITISH    ARMY 

endless  cutting.  It  is  slippery  clay  be- 
low. I  have  no  nails  in  my  boots,  an  iron 
pot  on  my  head,  and  the  sun  above  me.  I 
will  remember  that  walk.  Ten  telephone 
wires  run  down  the  side.  Here  and  there 
large  thistles  and  other  plants  grow  from 
the  clay  walls,  so  immobile  have  been  our 
lines.  Occasionally  there  are  patches  of 
untidiness.  "Shells,"  says  the  officer  la- 
conically. There  is  a  racket  of  guns  be- 
fore us  and  behind,  especially  behind,  but 
danger  seems  remote  with  all  these  Bairn- 
father  groups  of  cheerful  Tommies  at  work 
around  us.  I  pass  one  group  of  grimy, 
tattered  boys.  A  glance  at  their  shoulders 
shows  me  that  they  are  of  a  public  school 
battalion.  "I  thought  you  fellows  were  all 
officers  now,"  I  remarked.  "No,  sir,  we 
like  it  better  so."  "Well,  it  will  be  a  great 
memory  for  you.  We  are  all  in  your 
debt."  They  salute,  and  we  squeeze  past 
them.  They  had  the  fresh,  brown  faces  of 
boy  cricketers.  But  their  comrades  were 
men  of  a  different  type,  with  hard,  strong, 
rugged  features,  and  the  eyes  of  men  who 
[1-5] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

have  seen  strange  sights.  These  are 
veterans,  men  of  Mons,  and  their  young 
pals  of  the  public  schools  have  something 
to  live  up  to. 

"  ^v  9fr  ^c 

Up  to  this  we  have  only  had  two  clay 
walls  to  look  at.  But  now  our  intermin- 
able and  tropical  walk  is  lightened  by  the 
sight  of  a  British  aeroplane  sailing  over- 
head. Numerous  shrapnel  bursts  are  all 
round  it,  but  she  floats  on  serenely,  a  thing 
of  delicate  beauty  against  the  blue  back- 
ground. Now  another  passes — and  yet 
another.  All  morning  we  saw  them 
circling  and  swooping,  and  never  a  sign 
of  a  Boche.  They  tell  me  it  is  nearly  al- 
ways so — that  we  hold  the  air,  and  that 
the  Boche  intruder,  save  at  early  morn- 
ing, is  a  rare  bird.  A  visit  to  the  line 
would  reassure  Mr.  Pemberton-Billing. 
"We  have  never  met  a  British  aeroplane 
which  was  not  ready  to  fight,"  said  a  cap- 
tured German  aviator  the  other  day. 
There  is  a  fine  stern  courtesy  between  the 
airmen  on  either  side,  each  dropping  notes 

[16] 


A    GLIMPSE   OF   THE   BRITISH    ARMY 

into  the  other's  aerodromes  to  tell  the 
fate  of  missing  officers.  Had  the  whole 
war  been  fought  by  the  Germans  as  their 
airmen  have  conducted  it  (I  do  not  speak 
of  course  of  the  Zeppelin  murderers),  a 
peace  would  eventually  have  been  more 
easily  arranged.  As  it  is,  if  every  frontier 
could  be  settled,  it  would  be  a  hard  thing 
to  stop  until  all  that  is  associated  with 
the  words  Cavell,  Zeppelin,  Wittenberg, 
Lusitania,  and  Louvain  has  been  brought 
to  the  bar  of  the  world's  Justice. 

And  now  we  are  there — in  what  is 
surely  the  most  wonderful  spot  in  the 
world,  the  front  firing  trench,  the  outer 
breakwater  which  holds  back  the  German 
tide.  How  strange  that  this  monstrous 
oscillation  of  giant  forces,  setting  in  from 
east  to  west,  should  find  their  equilibrium 
here  across  this  particular  meadow  of 
Flanders.  "How  far?"  I  ask.  "180 
yards,"  says  my  guide.  "Pop!"  remarks 
a  third  person  just  in  front.  "A  sniper," 
says  my  guide.  "Take  a  look  through  the 
periscope."  I  do  so.  There  is  some  rusty 
[17] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

wire  before  me,  then  a  field  sloping  slightly 
upwards  with  knee-deep  grass,  then  rusty 
wire  again,  and  a  red  line  of  broken  earth. 
There  is  not  a  sign  of  movement,  but 
sharp  eyes  are  always  watching  us,  even 
as  these  crouching  soldiers  around  me  are 
watching  them.  There  are  dead  Germans 
in  the  grass  before  us.  You  need  not  see 
them  to  know  that  they  are  there.  A 
wounded  soldier  sits  in  a  corner  nursing 
his  leg.  Here  and  there  men  pop  out  like 
rabbits  from  dug-outs  and  mine-shafts. 
Others  sit  on  the  fire-step  or  lean  smok- 
ing against  the  clay  wall.  Who  would 
dream  to  look  at  their  bold,  careless  faces 
that  this  is  a  front  line,  and  that  at  any 
moment  it  is  possible  that  a  grey  wave  may 
submerge  them?  With  all  their  careless 
bearing  I  notice  that  every  man  has  his 
gas  helmet  and  his  rifle  within  easy  reach. 
A  mile  of  front  trenches  and  then  we 
are  on  our  way  back  down  that  weary 
walk.  Then  I  am  whisked  off  upon  a  ten 
mile  drive.  There  is  a  pause  for  lunch  at 
Corps  Headquarters,  and  after  it  we  are 

[18] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   BRITISH   ARMY 

taken  to  a  medal  presentation  in  a  market 
square.  Generals  Munro,  Haking  and 
Landon,  famous  fighting  soldiers  all  three, 
are  the  British  representatives.  Munro 
with  a  ruddy  face,  and  brain  above 
all  bulldog  below;  Haking,  pale,  distin- 
guished, intellectual;  Landon  a  pleasant, 
genial  country  squire.  An  elderly  French 
General  stands  beside  them.  British  in- 
fantry keep  the  ground.  In  front  are 
about  fifty  Frenchmen  in  civil  dress  of 
every  grade  of  life,  workmen  and  gentle- 
men, in  a  double  rank.  They  are  all  so 
wounded  that  they  are  back  in  civil  life, 
but  to-day  they  are  to  have  some  solace 
for  their  wounds.  They  lean  heavily 
on  sticks,  their  bodies  are  twisted  and 
maimed,  but  their  faces  are  shining  with 
pride  and  joy.  The  French  General 
draws  his  sword  and  addresses  them. 
One  catches  words  like  "honneur"  and 
"patrie."  They  lean  forward  on  their 
crutches,  hanging  on  every  syllable  which 
comes  hissing  and  rasping  from  under 
that  heavy  white  moustache.  Then  the 
[19] 


A  VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

medals  are  pinned  on.  One  poor  lad  is 
terribly  wounded  and  needs  two  sticks.  A 
little  girl  runs  out  with  some  flowers.  He 
leans  forward  and  tries  to  kiss  her,  but 
the  crutches  slip  and  he  nearly  falls  upon 
her.  It  was  a  pitiful  but  beautiful  little 
scene. 

Now  the  British  candidates  march  up 
one  by  one  for  their  medals,  hale,  hearty 
men,  brown  and  fit.  There  is  a  smart 
young  officer  of  Scottish  Rifles;  and  then 
a  selection  of  Worcesters,  Welsh  Fusiliers 
and  Scots  Fusiliers,  with  one  funny  little 
Highlander,  a  tiny  figure  with  a  soup- 
bowl  helmet,  a  grinning  boy's  face  beneath 
it,  and  a  bedraggled  uniform.  "Many 
acts  of  great  bravery,"  such  was  the  record 
for  which  he  was  decorated.  Even  the 
French  wounded  smiled  at  his  quaint  ap- 
pearance, as  they  did  at  another  Briton 
who  had  acquired  the  chewing-gum  habit, 
and  came  up  for  his  medal  as  if  he  had 
been  called  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  his 
dinner,  which  he  was  still  endeavouring  to 
bolt.     Then  came  the  end,  with  the  Na- 

[20] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   BRITISH   ARMY 

tional  Anthem.  The  British  regiment 
formed  fours  and  went  past.  To  me  that 
was  the  most  impressive  sight  of  any. 
They  were  the  Queen's  West  Surreys,  a 
veteran  regiment  of  the  great  Ypres  bat- 
tle. What  grand  fellows!  As  the  order 
came  "Eyes  right,"  and  all  those  fierce, 
dark  faces  flashed  round  about  us,  I  felt 
the  might  of  the  British  infantry,  the  in- 
tense individuality  which  is  not  incompati- 
ble with  the  highest  discipline.  Much 
they  had  endured,  but  a  great  spirit  shone 
from  their  faces.  I  confess  that  as  I 
looked  at  those  brave  English  lads,  and 
thought  of  what  we  owe  to  them  and  to 
their  like  who  have  passed  on,  I  felt  more 
emotional  than  befits  a  Briton  in  foreign 
parts. 

*;!-_  .*&.  &-  &. 

^^  ^^  ^jv  ^|^ 

Now  the  ceremony  was  ended,  and  once 
again  we  set  out  for  the  front.  It  was  to 
an  artillery  observation  post  that  we  were 
bound,  and  once  again  my  description 
must  be  bounded  by  discretion.  Suffice 
it,  that  in  an  hour  I  found  myself,  together 
[21] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

with  a  razor-keen  young  artillery  observer 
and  an  excellent  old  sportsman  of  a  Rus- 
sian prince,  jammed  into  a  very  small 
space,  and  staring  through  a  slit  at  the 
German  lines.  In  front  of  us  lay  a  vast 
plain,  scarred  and  slashed,  with  bare  places 
at  intervals,  such  as  you  see  where  gravel 
pits  break  a  green  common.  Not  a  sign 
of  life  or  movement,  save  some  wheeling 
crows.  And  yet  down  there,  within  a  mile 
or  so,  is  the  population  of  a  city.  Far 
away  a  single  train  is  puffing  at  the  back 
of  the  German  lines.  We  are  here  on  a 
definite  errand.  Away  to  the  right,  nearly 
three  miles  off,  is  a  small  red  house,  dim 
to  the  eye  but  clear  in  the  glasses,  which 
is  suspected  as  a  German  post.  It  is  to 
go  up  this  afternoon.  The  gun  is  some 
distance  away,  but  I  hear  the  telephone 
directions.  "  'Mother'  will  soon  do  her 
in,"  remarks  the  gunner  boy  cheerfully. 
"Mother"  is  the  name  of  the  gun.  "Give 
her  five  six  three  four,"  he  cries  through 
the  'phone.  "Mother"  utters  a  horrible 
bellow  from  somewhere  on  our  right.    An 

[22] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF    THE    BRITISH    ARMY 

enormous  spout  of  smoke  rises  ten  seconds 
later  from  near  the  house.  "A  little 
short,"  says  our  gunner.  "Two  and  a  half 
minutes  left,"  adds  a  little  small  voice, 
which  represents  another  observer  at  a 
different  angle.  "Raise  her  seven  five," 
says  our  boy  encouragingly.  "Mother" 
roars  more  angrily  than  ever.  "How  will 
that  do?"  she  seems  to  say.  "One  and  a 
half  right,"  says  our  invisible  gossip.  I 
wonder  how  the  folk  in  the  house  are  feel- 
ing as  the  shells  creep  ever  nearer.  "Gun 
laid,  sir,"  says  the  telephone.  "Fire!"  I 
am  looking  through  my  glass.  A  flash  of 
fire  on  the  house,  a  huge  pillar  of  dust  and 
smoke — then  it  settles  and  an  unbroken 
field  is  there.  The  German  post  has  gone 
up.  "It's  a  dear  little  gun,"  says  the  of- 
ficer boy.  "And  her  shells  are  reliable," 
remarked  a  senior  behind  us.  "They  vary 
with  different  calibres,  but  'Mother'  never 
goes  wrong."  The  German  line  was  very 
quiet.  "Pourquoi  ils  ne  repondent  pas?" 
asked  the  Russian  prince.  'Yes,  they  are 
quiet  to-day,"  answered  the  senior.  "But 
[23] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

we  get  it  in  the  neck  sometimes."  We  are 
all  led  off  to  be  introduced  to  "Mother," 
who  sits,  squat  and  black,  amid  twenty  of 
her  grimy  children  who  wait  upon  and 
feed  her.  She  is  an  important  person  is 
"Mother,"  and  her  importance  grows.  It 
gets  clearer  with  every  month  that  it  is 
she,  and  only  she,  who  can  lead  us  to  the 
Rhine.  She  can  and  she  will  if  the  fac- 
tories of  Britain  can  beat  those  of  the 
Hun.  See  to  it,  you  working  men  and 
women  of  Britain.  Work  now  if  you  rest 
for  ever  after,  for  the  fate  of  Europe  and 
of  all  that  is  dear  to  us  is  in  your  hands. 
For  "Mother"  is  a  dainty  eater,  and  needs 
good  food  and  plenty.  She  is  fond  of 
strange  lodgings,  too,  in  which  she  prefers 
safety  to  dignity.  But  that  is  a  danger- 
ous subject. 

**  jfc  *  46 

#r»  *p  vr*  vi* 

One  more  experience  of  this  wonderful 
day — the  most  crowded  with  impressions 
of  my  whole  life.  At  night  we  take  a  car 
and  drive  north,  and  ever  north,  until  at 
a  late  hour  we  halt  and  climb  a  hill  in  the 

[24] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   BRITISH   ARMY 

darkness.  Below  is  a  wonderful  sight. 
Down  on  the  flats,  in  a  huge  semi-circle, 
lights  are  rising  and  falling.  They  are 
very  brilliant,  going  up  for  a  few  seconds 
and  then  dying  down.  Sometimes  a  dozen 
are  in  the  air  at  one  time.  There  are  the 
dull  thuds  of  explosions  and  an  occasional 
rat-tat-tat.  I  have  seen  nothing  like  it, 
but  the  nearest  comparison  would  be  an 
enormous  ten-mile  railway  station  in  full 
swing  at  night,  with  signals  winking,  lamps 
waving,  engines  hissing  and  carriages 
bumping.  It  is  a  terrible  place  down 
yonder,  a  place  which  will  live  as  long  as 
military  history  is  written,  for  it  is  the 
Ypres  Salient.  What  a  salient  it  is,  too! 
A  huge  curve,  as  outlined  by  the  lights, 
needing  only  a  little  more  to  be  an  encir- 
clement. Something  caught  the  rope  as  it 
closed,  and  that  something  was  the  British 
soldier.  But  it  is  a  perilous  place  still  by 
day  and  by  night.  Never  shall  I  forget 
the  impression  of  ceaseless,  malignant 
activity  which  was  borne  in  upon  me  by 
the  white,  winking  lights,  the  red  sudden 
[25] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

glares,  and  the  horrible  thudding  noises 
in  that  place  of  death  beneath  me. 


II 

In  old  days  we  had  a  great  name  as 
organisers.  Then  came  a  long  period 
when  we  deliberately  adopted  a  policy  of 
individuality  and  "go  as  you  please." 
Now  once  again  in  our  sore  need  we  have 
called  on  all  our  power  of  administration 
and  direction.  But  it  has  not  deserted  us. 
We  still  have  it  in  a  supreme  degree. 
Even  in  peace  time  we  have  shown  it  in 
that  vast,  well-oiled,  swift-running,  noise- 
less machine  called  the  British  Navy.  But 
now  our  powers  have  risen  with  the  need 
of  them.  The  expansion  of  the  Navy 
has  been  a  miracle,  the  management  of 
the  transport  a  greater  one,  the  formation 
of  the  new  Army  the  greatest  of  all  time. 
To  get  the  men  was  the  least  of  the  dif- 
ficulties. To  put  them  here,  with  every- 
thing down  to  the  lid  of  the  last  field 
saucepan  in  its  place,  that  is  the  marvel. 

[26] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF    THE   BRITISH    ARMY 

The  tools  of  the  gunners,  and  of  the  sap- 
pers, to  say  nothing  of  the  knowledge  of 
how  to  use  them,  are  in  themselves  a  huge 
problem.  But  it  has  all  been  met  and 
mastered,  and  will  be  to  the  end.  But 
don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about  the  mud- 
dling of  the  War  Office.  It  has  become 
just  a  little  ridiculous. 

ili.  iit  2&L  J&.  -"J/ 

7fT  ^T  7f?  vpr  71? 

I  have  told  of  my  first  day,  when  I 
visited  the  front  trenches,  saw  the  work  of 
"Mother,"  and  finally  that  marvellous 
spectacle,  the  Ypres  Salient  at  night.  I 
have  passed  the  night  at  the  headquarters 
of  a  divisional-general,  Capper,  who 
might  truly  be  called  one  of  the  two 
fathers  of  the  British  flying  force,  for  it 
was  he,  with  Templer,  who  laid  the  first 
foundations  from  which  so  great  an  or- 
ganisation has  arisen.  My  morning 
was  spent  in  visiting  two  fighting 
brigadiers,  cheery  weather-beaten  soldiers, 
respectful,  as  all  our  soldiers  are,  of  the 
prowess  of  the  Hun,  but  serenely  confi- 
dent that  we  can  beat  him.  In  company 
[27] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

with  one  of  them  I  ascended  a  hill,  the 
reverse  slope  of  which  was  swarming  with 
cheerful  infantry  in  every  stage  of  dis- 
habille, for  they  were  cleaning  up  after 
the  trenches.  Once  over  the  slope  we  ad- 
vanced with  some  care,  and  finally  reached 
a  certain  spot  from  which  we  looked  down 
upon  the  German  line.  It  was  the  ad- 
vanced observation  post,  about  a  thousand 
yards  from  the  German  trenches,  with 
our  own  trenches  between  us.  We  could 
see  the  two  lines,  sometimes  only  a  few 
yards,  as  it  seemed,  apart,  extending  for 
miles  on  either  side.  The  sinister  silence 
and  solitude  were  strangely  dramatic. 
Such  vast  crowds  of  men,  such  intensity 
of  feeling,  and  yet  only  that  open  rolling 
countryside,  with  never  a  movement  in  its 
whole  expanse. 

The  afternoon  saw  us  in  the  Square  at 
Ypres.  It  is  the  city  of  a  dream,  this 
modern  Pompeii,  destroyed,  deserted  and 
desecrated,  but  with  a  sad,  proud  dignity 
which  made  you  involuntarily  lower  your 
voice  as  you  passed  through  the  ruined 

[28] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   BRITISH   ARMY 

streets.  It  is  a  more  considerable  place 
than  I  had  imagined,  with  many  traces  of 
ancient  grandeur.  No  words  can  describe 
the  absolute  splintered  wreck  that  the 
Huns  have  made  of  it.  The  effect  of 
some  of  the  shells  has  been  grotesque.  One 
boiler-plated  water-tower,  a  thing  forty 
or  fifty  feet  high,  was  actually  standing 
on  its  head  like  a  great  metal  top.  There 
is  not  a  living  soul  in  the  place  save  a 
few  pickets  of  soldiers,  and  a  number  of 
cats  which  become  fierce  and  dangerous. 
Now  and  then  a  shell  still  falls,  but  the 
Huns  probably  know  that  the  devastation 
is  already  complete. 

We  stood  in  the  lonely  grass -grown 
square,  once  the  busy  centre  of  the  town, 
and  we  marvelled  at  the  beauty  of  the 
smashed  cathedral  and  the  tottering  Cloth 
Hall  beside  it.  Surely  at  their  best  they 
could  not  have  looked  more  wonderful 
than  now.  If  they  were  preserved  even 
so,  and  if  a  heaven-inspired  artist  were  to 
model  a  statue  of  Belgium  in  front,  Bel- 
gium with  one  hand  pointing  to  the  treaty 
[29] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

by  which  Prussia  guaranteed  her  safety 
and  the  other  to  the  sacrilege  behind  her, 
it  would  make  the  most  impressive  group 
in  the  world.  It  was  an  evil  day  for  Bel- 
gium when  her  frontier  was  violated,  but 
it  was  a  worse  one  for  Germany.  I 
venture  to  prophesy  that  it  will  be  re- 
garded by  history  as  the  greatest  military 
as  well  as  political  error  that  has  ever  been 
made.  Had  the  great  guns  that  destroyed 
Liege  made  their  first  breach  at  Verdun 
what  chance  was  there  for  Paris?  Those 
few  weeks  of  warning  and  preparation 
saved  France,  and  left  Germany  as  she 
now  is,  like  a  weary  and  furious  bull, 
•tethered  fast  in  the  place  of  trespass  and 
waiting  for  the  inevitable  pole-axe. 

We  were  glad  to  get  out  of  the  place, 
for  the  gloom  of  it  lay  as  heavy  upon  our 
hearts  as  the  shrapnel  helmets  did  upon 
our  heads.  Both  were  lightened  as  we 
sped  back  past  empty  and  shattered  villas 
to  where,  just  behind  the  danger  line,  the 
normal  life  of  rural  Flanders  was  carry- 
ing on  as  usual.    A  merry  sight  helped  to 

[30] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   THE   BRITISH    ARMY 

cheer  us,  for  scudding  down  wind  above 
our  heads  came  a  Boche  aeroplane,  with 
two  British  at  her  tail  barking  away  with 
their  machine  guns,  like  two  swift  terriers 
after  a  cat.  They  shot  rat-tat-tatting 
across  the  sky  until  we  lost  sight  of  them 

in  the  heat  haze  over  the  German  line. 

***** 

The  afternoon  saw  us  on  the  Sharpen- 
burg,  from  which  many  a  million  will  gaze 
in  days  to  come,  for  from  no  other  point 
can  so  much  be  seen.  It  is  a  spot  forbid, 
but  a  special  permit  took  us  up,  and  the 
sentry  on  duty,  having  satisfied  himself 
of  our  bona  fides,  proceeded  to  tell  us 
tales  of  the  war  in  a  pure  Hull  dialect 
which  might  have  been  Chinese  for  all  that 
I  could  understand.  That  he  was  a  "ter- 
rier" and  had  nine  children  were  the  only 
facts  I  could  lay  hold  of.  But  I  wished 
to  be  silent  and  to  think — even,  perhaps, 
to  pray.  Here,  just  below  my  feet,  were 
the  spots  which  our  dear  lads,  three  of 
them  my  own  kith,  have  sanctified  with 
their  blood.  Here,  fighting  for  the  free- 
[31] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

dom  of  the  world,  they  cheerily  gave  their 
all.  On  that  sloping  meadow  to  the  left 
of  the  row  of  houses  on  the  opposite  ridge 
the  London  Scottish  fought  to  the  death 
on  that  grim  November  morning  when 
the  Bavarians  reeled  back  from  their  shot- 
torn  line.  That  plain  away  on  the  other 
side  of  Ypres  was  the  place  where  the 
three  grand  Canadian  brigades,  first  of  all 
men,  stood  up  to  the  damnable  cowardly 
gases  of  the  Hun.  Down  yonder  is  Hill 
60,  that  blood-soaked  kopje.  The  ridge 
over  the  fields  was  held  by  the  cavalry 
against  two  army  corps,  and  there  where 
the  sun  strikes  the  red  roof  among  the 
trees  I  can  just  see  Gheluveld,  a  name  for 
ever  to  be  associated  with  Haig  and  the 
most  vital  battle  of  the  war.  As  I  turn 
away  I  am  faced  by  my  Hull  Territorial, 
who  still  says  incomprehensible  things.  I 
look  at  him  with  other  eyes.  He  has 
fought  on  yonder  plain.  He  has  slain 
Huns,  and  he  has  nine  children.  Could 
anyone  better  epitomise  the  duties  of  a 
good  citizen?     I  could  have  found  it  in 

[32] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   THE   BRITISH   ARMY 

my  heart  to  salute  him  had  I  not  known 
that  it  would  have  shocked  him  and  made 
him  unhappy. 

It  has  been  a  full  day,  and  the  next  is 
even  fuller,  for  it  is  my  privilege  to  lunch 
at  Headquarters,  and  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  Commander-in-chief  and 
of  his  staff.  It  would  be  an  invasion  of 
private  hospitality  if  I  were  to  give  the 
public  the  impressions  which  I  carried 
from  that  charming  chateau.  I  am  the 
more  sorry,  since  they  were  very  vivid  and 
strong.  This  much  I  will  say — and  any 
man  who  is  a  face  reader  will  not  need 
to  have  it  said — that  if  the  Army  stands 
still  it  is  not  by  the  will  of  its  commander. 
There  will,  I  swear,  be  no  happier  man  in 
Europe  when  the  day  has  come  and  the 
hour.  It  is  human  to  err,  but  never  possi- 
bly can  some  types  err  by  being  backward. 
We  have  a  superb  army  in  France.  It 
needs  the  right  leader  to  handle  it.  I  came 
away  happier  and  more  confident  than 
ever  as  to  the  future. 

Extraordinary  are  the  contrasts  of  war. 
[33] 


A  VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

Within  three  hours  of  leaving  the  quiet 
atmosphere  of  the  Headquarters  Chateau 
I  was  present  at  what  in  any  other  war 
would  have  been  looked  upon  as  a  brisk 
engagement.  As  it  was  it  would  certainly 
figure  in  one  of  our  desiccated  reports  as 
an  activity  of  the  artillery.  The  noise  as 
we  struck  the  line  at  this  new  point  showed 
that  the  matter  was  serious,  and,  indeed, 
we  had  chosen  the  spot  because  it  has  been 
the  storm  centre  of  the  last  week.  The 
method  of  approach  chosen  by  our  ex- 
perienced guide  was  in  itself  a  tribute  to 
the  gravity  of  the  affair.  As  one  comes 
from  the  settled  order  of  Flanders  into 
the  actual  scene  of  war,  the  first  sign  of  it 
is  one  of  the  stationary,  sausage-shaped 
balloons,  a  chain  of  which  marks  the  ring 
in  which  the  great  wrestlers  are  locked. 
We  pass  under  this,  ascend  a  hill,  and  find 
ourselves  in  a  garden  where  for  a  year  no 
feet  save  those  of  wanderers  like  ourselves 
have  stood.  There  is  a  wild,  confused 
luxuriance  of  growth  more  beautiful  to 
my  eye  than  anything  which  the  care  of 

[34] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   THE   BRITISH    ARMY 

man  can  produce.  One  old  shell-hole  of 
vast  diameter  has  filled  itself  with  forget- 
me-nots,  and  appears  as  a  graceful  basin 
of  light  blue  flowers,  held  up  as  an  atone- 
ment to  heaven  for  the  brutalities  of  man. 
Through  the  tangled  bushes  we  creep, 
then  across  a  yard — "Please  stoop  and  run 
as  you  pass  this  point" — and  finally  to 
a  small  opening  in  a  wall,  whence  the 
battle  lies  not  so  much  before  as  beside 
us.  For  a  moment  we  have  a  front  seat 
at  the  great  world-drama,  God's  own 
problem  play,  working  surely  to  its  mag- 
nificent end.  One  feels  a  sort  of  shame 
to  crouch  here  in  comfort,  a  useless  spec- 
tator, while  brave  men  down  yonder  are 

facing  that  pelting  shower  of  iron. 

***** 

There  is  a  large  field  on  our  left  rear, 
and  the  German  gunners  have  the  idea 
that  there  is  a  concealed  battery  therein. 
They  are  systematically  searching  for  it. 
A  great  shell  explodes  in  the  top  corner, 
but  gets  nothing  more  solid  than  a  few 
tons  of  clay.  You  can  read  the  mind  of 
[35] 


A  VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

Gunner  Fritz.  "Try  the  lower  corner!" 
says  he,  and  up  goes  the  earth-cloud  once 
again.  "Perhaps  it's  hid  about  the  mid- 
dle. I'll  try."  Earth  again,  and  nothing 
more.  "I  believe  I  was  right  the  first 
time  after  all,"  says  hopeful  Fritz.  So 
another  shell  comes  into  the  top  corner. 
The  field  is  as  full  of  pits  as  a  Gruyerc 
cheese,  but  Fritz  gets  nothing  by  his  per- 
severance. Perhaps  there  never  was  a 
battery  there  at  all.  One  effect  he  ob- 
viously did  attain.  He  made  several  other 
British  batteries  exceedingly  angry. 
"Stop  that  tickling,  Fritz!"  was  the  bur- 
den of  their  cry.  Where  they  were  we 
could  no  more  see  than  Fritz  could,  but 
their  constant  work  was  very  clear  along 
the  German  line.  We  appeared  to  be  us- 
ing more  shrapnel  and  the  Germans  more 
high  explosives,  but  that  may  have  been 
just  the  chance  of  the  day.  The  Vimy 
Ridge  was  on  our  right,  and  before  us  was 
the  old  French  position,  with  the  labyrinth 
of  terrible  memories  and  the  long  hill  of 
Lorette.    When,  last  year,  the  French,  in 

[36] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   THE    BRITISH    ARMY 

a  three  weeks'  battle,  fought  their  way  up 
that  hill,  it  was  an  exhibition  of  sustained 
courage  which  even  their  military  annals 

can  seldom  have  beaten. 

***** 

And  so  I  turn  from  the  British  line. 
Another  and  more  distant  task  lies  before 
me.  I  come  away  with  the  deep  sense 
of  the  difficult  task  which  lies  before  the 
Army,  but  with  a  deeper  one  of  the  ability 
of  these  men  to  do  all  that  soldiers  can 
ever  be  asked  to  perform.  Let  the  guns 
clear  the  way  for  the  infantry,  and  the  rest 
will  follow.  It  all  lies  with  the  guns. 
But  the  guns,  in  turn,  depend  upon  our 
splendid  workers  at  home,  who,  men  and 
women,  are  doing  so  grandly.  Let  them 
not  be  judged  by  a  tiny  minority,  who 
are  given,  perhaps,  too  much  attention  in 
our  journals.  We  have  all  made  sacrifices 
in  the  war,  but  when  the  full  story  comes 
to  be  told,  perhaps  the  greatest  sacrifice 
of  all  is  that  which  Labour  made  when, 
with  a  sigh,  she  laid  aside  that  which  it  had 
taken  so  many  weary  years  to  build. 
[37] 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE 
ITALIAN  ARMY 

ONE  meets  with  such  extreme  kind- 
ness and  consideration  among  the 
Italians  that  there  is  a  real  danger  lest 
one's  personal  feeling  of  obligation  should 
warp  one's  judgment  or  hamper  one's  ex- 
pression. Making  every  possible  allow- 
ance for  this  I  come  away  from  them,  after 
a  very  wide  if  superficial  view  of  all  that 
they  are  doing,  with  a  deep  feeling  of  ad- 
miration and  a  conviction  that  no  army  in 
the  world  could  have  made  a  braver  at- 
tempt to  advance  under  conditions  of  ex- 
traordinary difficulty. 

First  a  word  as  to  the  Italian  soldier. 
He  is  a  type  by  himself  which  differs  from 
the  earnest  solidarity  of  the  new  French 
army,  and  from  the  business-like  alertness 
of  the  Briton,  and  yet  has  a  very  special 
dash  and  fire  of  its  own,  covered  over  by 

[38] 


A    GLIMPSE    OF   THE    ITALIAN    ARMY 

a  very  pleasing  and  unassuming  manner. 
London  has  not  yet  forgotten  Durando  of 
Marathon  fame.  He  was  just  such  an- 
other easy  smiling  youth  as  I  now  see 
everywhere  around  me.  Yet  there  came 
a  day  when  a  hundred  thousand  London- 
ers hung  upon  his  every  movement — when 
strong  men  gasped  and  women  wept  at 
his  invincible  but  unavailing  spirit.  When 
he  had  fallen  senseless  in  that  historic  race 
on  the  very  threshold  of  his  goal,  so  high 
was  the  determination  within  him  that 
while  he  floundered  on  the  track  like  a 
broken-backed  horse,  with  the  senses  gone 
out  of  him  his  legs  still  continued  to  drum 
upon  the  cinder  path.  Then  when  by  pure 
will  power  he  staggered  to  his  feet  and 
drove  his  dazed  body  across  the  line  it  was 
an  exhibition  of  pluck  which  put  the  little 
sunburned  baker  straightway  among  Lon- 
don's heroes.  Durando's  spirit  is  alive  to- 
day. I  see  thousands  of  him  all  around  me. 
A  thousand  such  led  by  a  few  young  gen- 
tlemen of  the  type  who  occasionally  give 
us  object  lessons  in  how  to  ride  at 
[39] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

Olympia,  make  no  mean  battalion.  It  has 
been  a  war  of  most  desperate  ventures  but 
never  once  has  there  been  a  lack  of  vol- 
unteers. The  Tyrolese  are  good  men — 
too  good  to  be  fighting  in  so  rotten  a  cause. 
But  from  first  to  last  the  Alpini  have  had 
the  ascendency  in  the  hill  fighting,  as  the 
line  regiments  have  against  the  Kaiserlics 
upon  the  plain.  Caesar  told  how  the  big 
Germans  used  to  laugh  at  his  little  men  un- 
til they  had  been  at  handgrips  with  them. 
The  Austrians  could  tell  the  same  tale. 
The  spirit  in  the  ranks  is  something  mar- 
vellous. There  have  been  occasions  when 
every  officer  has  fallen  and  yet  the  men 
have  pushed  on,  have  taken  a  position  and 
then  waited  for  official  directions. 

But  if  that  is  so,  you  will  ask,  why  is 
it  that  they  have  not  made  more  impres- 
sion upon  the  enemy's  position?  The 
answer  lies  in  the  strategical  position  of 
Italy,  and  it  can  be  discussed  without  any 
technicalities.  A  child  could  understand 
it.  The  Alps  form  such  a  bar  across  the 
north  that  there  are  only  two  points  where 

[40] 


A    GLIMPSE   OF    THE   ITALIAN    ARMY 

serious  operations  are  possible.  One  is 
the  Trentino  Salient  where  Austria  can 
always  threaten  and  invade  Italy.  She 
lies  in  the  mountains  with  the  plains  be- 
neath her.  She  can  always  invade  the 
plain,  but  the  Italians  cannot  seriously 
invade  the  mountains  since  the  passes 
would  only  lead  to  other  mountains  be- 
yond. Therefore  their  only  possible 
policy  is  to  hold  the  Austrians  back.  This 
they  have  most  successfully  done,  and 
though  the  Austrians  with  the  aid  of  a 
shattering  heavy  artillery  have  recently 
made  some  advance  it  is  perfectly  certain 
that  they  can  never  really  carry  out  any 
serious  invasion.  The  Italians  then  have 
done  all  that  could  be  done  in  this  quarter. 
There  remains  the  other  front,  the  opening 
by  the  sea.  Here  the  Italians  had  a  chance 
to  advance  over  a  front  of  plain  bounded 
by  a  river  with  hills  beyond.  They  cleared 
the  plain,  they  crossed  the  river,  they 
fought  a  battle  very  like  our  own  battle 
of  the  Aisne  upon  the  slopes  of  the  hills, 
taking  20,000  Austrian  prisoners,  and  now 
[41] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

they  are  faced  by  barbed  wire,  machine 
guns,  cemented  trenches,  and  every  other 
device  which  has  held  them  as  it  has  held 
everyone  else.  But  remember  what  they 
have  done  for  the  common  cause  and  be 
grateful  for  it.  They  have  in  a  year  oc- 
cupied some  forty  Austrian  divisions,  and 
relieved  our  Russian  allies  to  that  very  ap- 
preciable extent.  They  have  killed  or 
wounded  a  quarter  of  a  million,  taken  40,- 
000,  and  drawn  to  themselves  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  artillery.  That  is  their  record 
up-to-date.  As  to  the  future  it  is  very 
easy  to  prophesy.  They  will  continue  to 
absorb  large  enemy  armies.  Neither  side 
can  advance  far  as  matters  stand.  But  if 
the  Russians  advance  and  Austria  has  to 
draw  her  men  to  the  East  there  will  be 
a  tiger  spring  for  Trieste.  If  manhood 
can  break  the  line  then  I  believe  the  Du- 
randos  will  do  it. 

"Trieste  o  morte !"  I  saw  chalked  upon 
the  walls  all  over  North  Italy.  That  is 
the  Italian  objective. 

And  they  are  excellently  led.    Cadorna 

[42] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   ITALIAN   ARMY 

is  an  old  Roman,  a  man  cast  in  the  big 
simple  mould  of  antiquity,  frugal  in  his 
tastes,  clear  in  his  aims,  with  no  thought 
outside  his  duty.  Everyone  loves  and 
trusts  him.  Porro,  the  Chief  of  the  Staff, 
who  was  good  enough  to  explain  the 
strategical  position  to  me,  struck  me  as  a 
man  of  great  clearness  of  vision,  middle- 
sized,  straight  as  a  dart,  with  an  eagle 
face  grained  and  coloured  like  an  old  wal- 
nut. The  whole  of  the  staff  work  is,  as 
experts  assure  me,  most  excellently  done. 
So  much  for  the  general  situation.  Let 
me  descend  for  a  moment  to  my  own 
trivial  adventures  since  leaving  the  British 
front.  Of  France  I  hope  to  say  more  in 
the  future,  and  so  I  will  pass  at  a  bound 
to  Padua,  where  it  appeared  that  the 
Austrian  front  had  politely  advanced  to 
meet  me,  for  I  was  wakened  betimes  in 
the  morning  by  the  dropping  of  bombs,  the 
rattle  of  anti-aircraft  guns  and  the  distant 
rat-tat-tat  of  a  maxim  high  up  in  the  air. 
I  heard  when  I  came  down  later  that  the 
intruder  had  been  driven  away  and  that 
[43] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

little  damage  had  been  done.  The  work  of 
the  Austrian  aeroplanes  is,  however,  very 
aggressive  behind  the  Italian  lines,  for 
they  have  the  great  advantage  that  a  row 
of  fine  cities  lies  at  their  mercy  while  the 
Italians  can  do  nothing  without  injuring 
their  own  kith  and  kin  across  the  border. 
This  dropping  of  explosives  on  the  chance 
of  hitting  one  soldier  among  fifty  victims 
seems  to  me  the  most  monstrous  develop- 
ment of  the  whole  war,  and  the  one  which 
should  be  most  sternly  repressed  in  future 
international  legislation — if  such  a  thing 
as  international  law  still  exists.  The 
Italian  headquarter  town,  which  I  will 
call  Nemini,  was  a  particular  victim  of 
these  murderous  attacks.  I  speak  with 
some  feeling,  as  not  only  was  the  ceiling 
of  my  bedroom  shattered  some  days  before 
my  arrival,  but  a  greasy  patch  with  some 
black  shreds  upon  it  was  still  visible  above 
my  window  which  represented  part  of  the 
remains  of  an  unfortunate  workman,  who 
had  been  blown  to  pieces  immediately  in 
front  of   the  house.       The   air  defence 

[44] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   ITALIAN    ARMY 

is  very  skilfully  managed,  however,  and 
the  Italians  have  the  matter  well  in  hand. 
My  first  experience  of  the  Italian  line 
was  at  the  portion  which  I  have  called  the 
gap  by  the  sea,  otherwise  the  Isonzo  front. 
From  a  mound  behind  the  trenches  an 
extraordinary  fine  view  can  be  got  of  the 
Austrian  position,  the  general  curve  of 
both  lines  being  marked,  as  in  Flanders, 
by  the  sausage  balloons  which  float  behind 
them.  The  Isonzo,  which  has  been  so 
bravely  carried  by  the  Italians,  lay  in 
front  of  me,  a  clear  blue  river,  as  broad 
as  the  Thames  at  Hampton  Court.  In  a 
hollow  to  my  left  were  the  roofs  of  Gorizia, 
the  town  which  the  Italians  are  endeavour- 
ing to  take.  A  long  desolate  ridge,  the 
Carso,  extends  to  the  south  of  the  town, 
and  stretches  down  nearly  to  the  sea.  The 
crest  is  held  by  the  Austrians  and  the 
Italian  trenches  have  been  pushed  within 
fifty  yards  of  them.  A  lively  bombard- 
ment was  going  on  from  either  side,  but 
so  far  as  the  infantry  goes  there  is  none 
of  that  constant  malignant  petty  warfare 
[45] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

with  which  we  are  familiar  in  Flanders.  I 
was  anxious  to  see  the  Italian  trenches, 
in  order  to  compare  them  with  our  British 
methods,  but  save  for  the  support  and 
communication  trenches  I  was  courteously 
but  firmly  warned  off. 

The  story  of  trench  attack  and  defence 
is  no  doubt  very  similar  in  all  quarters, 
but  I  am  convinced  that  close  touch  should 
be  kept  between  the  Allies  on  the  matter 
of  new  inventions.  The  quick  Latin  brain 
may  conceive  and  test  an  idea  long  before 
we  do.  At  present  there  seems  to  be  very 
imperfect  sympathy.  As  an  example,  when 
I  was  on  the  British  lines  they  were  dealing 
with  a  method  of  clearing  barbed  wire. 
The  experiments  were  new  and  were  caus- 
ing great  interest.  But  on  the  Italian 
front  I  found  that  the  same  system  had 
been  tested  for  many  months.  In  the  use 
of  bullet-proof  jackets  for  engineers  and 
other  men  who  have  to  do  exposed  work 
the  Italians  are  also  ahead  of  us.  One  of 
their  engineers  at  our  headquarters  might 
give  some  valuable  advice.    At  present  the 

[46] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   ITALIAN    ARMY 

Italians  have,  as  I  understand,  no  military 
representative  with  our  armies,  while  they 
receive  a  British  General  with  a  small  staff. 
This  seems  very  wrong  not  only  from  the 
point  of  view  of  courtesy  and  justice,  but 
also  because  Italy  has  no  direct  means  of 
knowing  the  truth  about  our  great  de- 
velopment. When  Germans  state  that  our 
new  armies  are  made  of  paper  our  Allies 
should  have  some  official  assurance  of  their 
own  that  this  is  false.  I  can  understand 
our  keeping  neutrals  from  our  head- 
quarters, but  surely  our  Allies  should  be 
on  another  footing. 

Having  got  this  general  view  of  the 
position  I  was  anxious  in  the  afternoon 
to  visit  Monfalcone,  which  is  the  small 
dockyard  captured  from  the  Austrians  on 
the  Adriatic.  My  kind  Italian  officer 
guides  did  not  recommend  the  trip  as  it 
was  part  of  their  great  hospitality  to  shield 
their  guest  from  any  part  of  that  danger 
which  they  were  always  ready  to  incur 
themselves.  The  only  road  to  Monfalcone 
ran  close  to  the  Austrian  position  at  the 
[47] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

village  of  Ronchi,  and  afterwards  kept 
parallel  to  it  for  some  miles.  I  was  told 
that  it  was  only  on  odd  days  that  the  Aus- 
trian guns  were  active  in  this  particular 
section,  so  determined  to  trust  to  luck  that 
this  might  not  be  one  of  them.  It  proved, 
however,  to  be  one  of  the  worst  on  record, 
and  we  were  not  destined  to  see  the  dock- 
yard to  which  we  started. 

The  civilian  cuts  a  ridiculous  figure 
when  he  enlarges  upon  small  adventures 
which  may  come  his  way — adventures 
which  the  soldier  endures  in  silence  as  part 
of  his  everyday  life.  On  this  occasion, 
however,  the  episode  was  all  our  own,  and 
had  a  sporting  flavour  in  it  which  made  it 
dramatic.  I  know  now  the  feeling  of  tense 
expectation  with  which  the  driven  grouse 
whirrs  onwards  towards  the  butt.  I  have 
been  behind  the  butt  before  now,  and  it  is 
only  poetic  justice  that  I  should  see  the 
matter  from  the  other  point  of  view.  As 
we  approached  Ronchi  we  could  see  shrap- 
nel breaking  over  the  road  in  front  of  us, 
but  we  had  not  yet  realised  that  it  was 

[48] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   ITALIAN    ARMY 

precisely  for  vehicles  that  the  Austrian* 
were  waiting,  and  that  they  had  the  range 
marked  out  to  a  yard.  We  went  down  the 
road  all  out  at  a  steady  fifty  miles  an 
hour.  The  village  was  near,  and  it  seemed 
that  we  had  got  past  the  place  of  danger. 
We  had  in  fact  just  reached  it.  At  this 
moment  there  was  a  noise  as  if  the  whole 
four  tyres  had  gone  simultaneously,  a  most 
terrific  bang  in  our  very  ears,  merging 
into  a  second  sound  like  a  reverberating 
blow  upon  an  enormous  gong.  As  I 
glanced  up  I  saw  three  clouds  immediately 
above  my  head,  two  of  them  white  and  the 
other  of  a  rusty  red.  The  air  was  full 
of  flying  metal  and  the  road,  as  we  were 
told  afterwards  by  an  observer,  was  all 
churned  up  by  it.  The  metal  base  of  one 
of  the  shells  was  found  plumb  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road  just  where  our  motor  had 
been.  There  is  no  use  telling  me  Austrian 
gunners  can't  shoot.    I  know  better. 

It  was  our  pace  that  saved  us.     The 
motor  was  an  open  one,  and  the  three 
shells    burst,    according   to    one    of    my 
[49] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

Italian  companions  who  was  himself  an 
artillery  officer,  about  ten  metres  above 
our  heads.  They  threw  forward,  how- 
ever, and  we  travelling  at  so  great  a  pace 
shot  from  under.  Before  they  could  get 
in  another  we  had  swung  round  the  curve 
and  under  the  lee  of  a  house.  The  good 
Colonel  B.  wrung  my  hand  in  silence. 
They  were  both  distressed,  these  good  sol- 
diers, under  the  impression  that  they  had 
led  me  into  danger.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
it  was  I  who  owed  them  an  apology,  since 
they  had  enough  risks  in  the  way  of  busi- 
ness without  taking  others  in  order  to 
gratify  the  whim  of  a  joy-rider.  Bar- 
bariche  and  Clericetti,  this  record  will  con- 
vey to  you  my  remorse. 

Our  difficulties  were  by  no  means  over. 
We  found  an  ambulance  lorry  and  a  little 
group  of  infantry  huddled  under  the  same 
shelter  with  the  expression  of  people  who 
had  been  caught  in  the  rain.  The  road  be- 
yond was  under  heavy  fire  as  well  as  that 
by  which  we  had  come.  Had  the  Ostro- 
Bosches  dropped  a  high-explosive  upon  us 

[50] 


A    GLIMPSE   OF   THE    ITALIAN    ARMY 

they  would  have  had  a  good  mixed  bag. 
But  apparently  they  were  only  out  for 
fancy  shooting  and  disdained  a  sitter. 
Presently  there  came  a  lull  and  the  lorry 
moved  on,  but  we  soon  heard  a  burst  of 
firing  which  showed  that  they  were  after 
it.  My  companions  had  decided  that  it 
was  out  of  the  question  for  us  to  finish  our 
excursion.  We  waited  for  some  time 
therefore  and  were  able  finally  to  make 
our  retreat  on  foot,  being  joined  later  by 
the  car.  So  ended  my  visit  to  Monf  alcone, 
the  place  I  did  not  reach.  I  hear  that  two 
10,000-ton  steamers  were  left  on  the  stocks 
there  by  the  Austrians,  but  were  disabled 
before  they  retired.  Their  cabin  basins 
and  other  fittings  are  now  adorning  the 
Italian  dug-outs. 

My  second  day  was  devoted  to  a  view 
of  the  Italian  mountain  warfare  in  the 
Carnic  Alps.  Besides  the  two  great  fronts, 
one  of  defence  (Trentino)  and  one  of  of- 
fence (Isonzo),  there  are  very  many 
smaller  valleys  which  have  to  be  guarded. 
The  total  frontier  line  is  over  four  hundred 
[51] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE    FRONTS 

miles,  and  it  has  all  to  be  held  against  raids 
if  not  invasions.  It  is  a  most  picturesque 
business.  Far  up  in  the  Roccolana  Valley 
I  found  the  Alpini  outposts,  backed  by 
artillery  which  had  been  brought  into  the 
most  wonderful  positions.  They  have 
taken  8-inch  guns  where  a  tourist  could 
hardly  take  his  knapsack.  Neither  side 
can  ever  make  serious  progress,  but  there 
are  continual  duels,  gun  against  gun,  or 
Alpini  against  Jaeger.  In  a  little  wayside 
house  was  the  brigade  headquarters,  and 
here  I  was  entertained  to  lunch.  It  was 
a  scene  that  I  shall  remember.  They  drank 
to  England.  I  raised  my  glass  to  Italia 
irredenta — might  it  soon  be  redenta.  They 
all  sprang  to  their  feet  and  the  circle  of 
dark  faces  flashed  into  flame.  They  keep 
their  souls  and  emotions,  these  people.  I 
trust  that  ours  may  not  become  atrophied 
by  self-suppression. 

The  Italians  are  a  quick  high-spirited 
race,  and  it  is  very  necessary  that  we 
should  consider  their  feelings,  and  that  we 
should  show  our  sympathy  with  what  they 

[52] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF    THE   ITALIAN    ABiJV 

have  done,  instead  of  making  querulous 
and  unreasonable  demands  of  them.  In 
some  ways  they  are  in  a  difficult  position. 
The  war  is  made  by  their  splendid  king — 
a  man  of  whom  everyone  speaks  with  ex- 
traordinary reverence  and  love — and  by 
the  people.  The  people  with  the  deep  in- 
stinct of  a  very  old  civilisation  understand 
that  the  liberty  of  the  world  and  their 
own  national  existence  are  really  at  stake. 
But  there  are  several  forces  which  divide 
the  strength  of  the  nation.  There  is  the 
clerical,  which  represents  the  old  Guelph 
or  German  spirit,  looking  upon  Austria 
as  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  church — a 
daughter  who  is  little  credit  to  her  mother. 
Then  there  is  the  old  nobility.  Finally, 
there  are  the  commercial  people  who 
through  the  great  banks  or  other  similar 
agencies  have  got  into  the  influence  and 
employ  of  the  Germans.  When  you  con- 
sider all  this  you  will  appreciate  how 
necessary  it  is  that  Britain  should  in  every 
possible  way,  moral  and  material,  sustain 
the  national  party.  Should  by  any  evil 
[53] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

chance  the  others  gain  the  upper  hand 
there  might  be  a  very  sudden  and  sinister 
change  in  the  international  situation. 
Every  man  who  does,  says,  or  writes  a 
thing  which  may  in  any  way  alienate  the 
Italians  is  really,  whether  he  knows  it  or 
not,  working  for  the  King  of  Prussia. 
They  are  a  grand  people,  striving  most 
efficiently  for  the  common  cause,  with  all 
the  dreadful  disabilities  which  an  absence 
of  coal  and  iron  entails.  It  is  for  us  to 
show  that  we  appreciate  it.  Justice  as 
well  as  policy  demands  it. 

The  last  day  spent  upon  the  Italian 
front  was  in  the  Trentino.  From  Verona 
a  motor  drive  of  about  twenty-five  miles 
takes  one  up  the  valley  of  the  Adige,  and 
past  a  place  of  evil  augury  for  the  Aus- 
trians,  the  field  of  Rivoli.  As  one  passes 
up  the  valley  one  appreciates  that  on  their 
left  wing  the  Italians  have  position  after 
position  in  the  spurs  of  the  mountains  be- 
fore they  could  be  driven  into  the  plain. 
If  the  Austrians  could  reach  the  plain  it 
would  be  to  their  own  ruin  for  the  Italians 

[54] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   THE   ITALIAN    ARMY 

have  large  reserves.    There  is  no  need  for 
any  anxiety  about  the  Trentino. 

The  attitude  of  the  people  behind  the 
firing  line  should  give  one  confidence.  I 
had  heard  that  the  Italians  were  a  nervous 
people.  It  does  not  apply  to  this  part  of 
Italy.  As  I  approached  the  danger  spot 
I  saw  rows  of  large,  fat  gentlemen  with 
long  thin  black  cigars  leaning  against  walls 
in  the  sunshine.  The  general  atmosphere 
would  have  steadied  an  epileptic.  Italy 
is  perfectly  sure  of  herself  in  this  quarter. 
Finally,  after  a  long  drive  of  winding 
gradients,  always  beside  the  Adige,  we 
reached  Ala,  where  we  interviewed  the 
Commander  of  the  Sector,  a  man  who  has 
done  splendid  work  during  the  recent 
fighting.  "By  all  means  you  can  see  my 
front.  But  no  motor-car,  please.  It  draws 
fire  and  others  may  be  hit  beside  you." 
We  proceeded  on  foot  therefore  along  a 
valley  which  branched  at  the  end  into  two 
passes.  In  both  very  active  fighting  had 
been  going  on,  and  as  we  came  up  the 
guns  were  baying  merrily,  waking  up  most 
[55] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

extraordinary  echoes  in  the  hills.  It  was 
difficult  to  believe  that  it  was  not  thunder. 
There  was  one  terrible  voice  that  broke 
out  from  time  to  time  in  the  mountains — 
the  angry  voice  of  the  Holy  Roman  Em- 
pire. When  it  came  all  other  sounds  died 
down  into  nothing.  It  was — so  I  was 
told — the  master  gun,  the  vast  42  centi- 
metre giant  which  brought  down  the  pride 
of  Liege  and  Namur.  The  Austrians 
have  brought  one  or  more  from  Innsbruck. 
The  Italians  assure  me,  however,  as  we 
have  ourselves  discovered,  that  in  trench 
work  beyond  a  certain  point  the  size  of  the 
gun  makes  little  matter. 

We  passed  a  burst  dug-out  by  the  road- 
side where  a  tragedy  had  occurred  re- 
cently, for  eight  medical  officers  were 
killed  in  it  by  a  single  shell.  There  was  no 
particular  danger  in  the  valley,  however, 
and  the  aimed  fire  was  all  going  across  us 
to  the  fighting  lines  in  the  two  passes  above 
us.  That  to  the  right,  the  Valley  of  Buel- 
lo,  has  seen  some  of  the  worst  of  the  fight- 
ing.    These  two  passes  form  the  Italian 

[56] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   THE   ITALIAN    ARMY 

left  wing  which  has  held  firm  all  through. 
So  has  the  right  wing.  It  is  only  the  cen- 
tre which  has  been  pushed  in  by  the  con- 
centrated fire. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  spot  where  the 
two  valleys  forked  we  were  halted,  and  we 
were  not  permitted  to  advance  to  the  ad- 
vance trenches  which  lay  upon  the  crests 
above  us.  There  was  about  a  thousand 
yards  between  the  adversaries.  I  have 
seen  types  of  some  of  the  Bosnian  and 
Croatian  prisoners,  men  of  poor  physique 
and  intelligence,  but  the  Italians  speak 
with  chivalrous  praise  of  the  bravery  of 
the  Hungarians  and  of  the  Austrian 
Jaeger.  Some  of  their  proceedings  dis- 
gust them,  however,  and  especially  the 
fact  that  they  use  Russian  prisoners  to  dig 
trenches  under  fire.  There  is  no  doubt  of 
this,  as  some  of  the  men  were  recaptured 
and  were  sent  on  to  join  their  comrades 
in  France.  On  the  whole,  however,  it  may 
be  said  that  in  the  Austro-Italian  war 
there  is  nothing  which  corresponds  with 
the  extreme  bitterness  of  our  western  con- 
[57] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

flict.  The  presence  or  absence  of  the  Hun 
makes  all  the  difference. 

Nothing  could  be  more  cool  or  me- 
thodical than  the  Italian  arrangements  on 
the  Trentino  front.  There  are  no  troops 
who  would  not  have  been  forced  back  by 
the  Austrian  fire.  It  corresponded  with 
the  French  experience  at  Verdun,  or  ours 
at  the  second  battle  of  Ypres.  It  may 
well  occur  again  if  the  Austrians  get  their 
guns  forward.  But  at  such  a  rate  it  would 
take  them  a  long  time  to  make  any  real 
impression.  One  cannot  look  at  the  of- 
ficers and  men  without  seeing  that  their 
spirit  and  confidence  are  high.  In  answer 
to  my  inquiry  they  assure  me  that  there 
is  little  difference  between  the  troops  of 
the  northern  provinces  and  those  of  the 
south.  Even  among  the  snows  of  the  Alps 
they  tell  me  that  the  Sicilians  gave  an  ex- 
cellent account  of  themselves. 

That  night  found  me  back  at  Verona 
and  next  morning  I  was  on  my  way  to 
Paris  where  I  hope  to  be  privileged  to 
have  some  experiences  at  the  front  of  our 

[58] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   ITALIAN   ARMY 

splendid  Allies.  1  leave  Italy  with  a  deep 
feeling  of  gratitude  for  the  kindness  shown 
to  me,  and  of  admiration  for  the  way  in 
which  they  are  playing  their  part  in  the 
world's  fight  for  freedom.  They  have 
every  possible  disadvantage,  economic  and 
political.  But  in  spite  of  it  they  have  done 
splendidly.  Three  thousand  square  kilo- 
metres of  the  enemy's  country  are  already 
in  their  possession.  They  relieve  to  a  very 
great  extent  the  pressure  upon  the  Rus- 
sians who,  in  spite  of  all  their  bravery, 
might  have  been  overwhelmed  last  sum- 
mer during  the  "durchbruch"  had  it  not 
been  for  the  diversion  of  so  many  Aus- 
trian troops.  The  time  has  come  now 
when  Russia  by  her  advance  on  the  Pripet 
is  repaying  her  debt.  But  the  debt  is  com- 
mon to  all  the  Allies.  Let  them  bear  it 
in  mind.  There  has  been  mischief  done 
by  slighting  criticism  and  by  inconsiderate 
words.  A  warm  sympathetic  hand  grasp 
of  congratulation  is  what  Italy  has  de- 
served, and  it  is  both  justice  and  policy 
to  give  it. 
[59] 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  FRENCH 

LINE 


THE  French  soldiers  are  grand.  They 
are  grand.  There  is  no  other  word 
to  express  it.  It  is  not  merely  their  brav- 
ery. All  races  have  shown  bravery  in  this 
war.  But  it  is  their  solidity,  their  patience, 
their  nobility.  I  could  not  conceive  any- 
thing finer  than  the  bearing  of  their  offi- 
cers. It  is  proud  without  being  arrogant, 
stern  without  being  fierce,  serious  without 
being  depressed.  Such,  too,  are  the  men 
whom  they  lead  with  such  skill  and  devo- 
tion. Under  the  frightful  hammer-blows 
of  circumstance,  the  national  characters 
seem  to  have  been  reversed.  It  is  our 
British  soldier  who  has  become  debonair, 
light-hearted  and  reckless,  while  the 
Frenchman  has  developed  a  solemn  stolid- 

[60] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH    LINE 

ity  and  dour  patience  which  was  once  all 
our  own.  During  a  long  day  in  the 
French  trenches,  I  have  never  once  heard 
the  sound  of  music  or  laughter,  nor  have 
I  once  seen  a  face  that  was  not  full  of  the 
most  grim  determination. 

Germany  set  out  to  bleed  France  white. 
Well,  she  has  done  so.  France  is  full  of 
widows  and  orphans  from  end  to  end. 
Perhaps  in  proportion  to  her  population 
she  has  suffered  the  most  of  all.  But  in 
carrying  out  her  hellish  mission  Germany 
has  bled  herself  white  also.  Her  heavy 
sword  has  done  its  work,  but  the  keen 
French  rapier  has  not  lost  its  skill.  France 
will  stand  at  last,  weak  and  tottering,  with 
her  huge  enemy  dead  at  her  feet.  But  it 
is  a  fearsome  business  to  see — such  a  busi- 
ness as  the  world  never  looked  upon  before. 
It  is  fearful  for  the  French.  It  is  fear- 
ful for  the  Germans.  May  God's  curse 
rest  upon  the  arrogant  men  and  the  un- 
holy ambitions  which  let  loose  this  horror 
upon  humanity!  Seeing  what  they  have 
done,  and  knowing  that  they  have  done 
[61] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

it,  one  would  think  that  mortal  brain 
would  grow  crazy  under  the  weight.  Per- 
haps the  central  brain  of  all  was  crazy 
from  the  first.  But  what  sort  of  govern- 
ment is  it  under  which  one  crazy  brain 
can  wreck  mankind! 

If  ever  one  wanders  into  the  high  places 
of  mankind,  the  places  whence  the  guid- 
ance should  come,  it  seems  to  me  that  one 
has  to  recall  the  dying  words  of  the  Swed- 
ish Chancellor  who  declared  that  the  folly 
of  those  who  governed  was  what  had 
amazed  him  most  in  his  experience  of  life. 
Yesterday  I  met  one  of  these  men  of  pow- 
er— M.  Clemenceau,  once  Prime  Minister, 
now  the  destroyer  of  governments.  He  is 
by  nature  a  destroyer,  incapable  of  re- 
building what  he  has  pulled  down.  With 
his  personal  force,  his  eloquence,  his  thun- 
dering voice,  his  bitter  pen,  he  could  wreck 
any  policy,  but  would  not  even  trouble  to 
suggest  an  alternative.  As  he  sat  before 
me  with  his  face  of  an  old  prizefighter  (he 
is  remarkably  like  Jim  Mace  as  I  can 
remember  him  in  his  later  days) ,  his  angry 

[62] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH   LINE 

grey  eyes  and  his  truculent,  mischievous 
smile,  he  seemed  to  me  a  very  dangerous 
man.  His  conversation,  if  a  squirt  on  one 
side  and  Niagara  on  the  other  can  be  called 
conversation,  was  directed  for  the  moment 
upon  the  iniquity  of  the  English  rate  of 
exchange,  which  seemed  to  me  very  much 
like  railing  against  the  barometer.  My 
companion,  who  has  forgotten  more  eco- 
nomics than  ever  Clemenceau  knew,  was 
about  to  ask  whether  France  was  prepared 
to  take  the  rouble  at  face  value,  but  the 
roaring  voice,  like  a  strong  gramophone 
with  a  blunt  needle,  submerged  all  argu- 
ment. We  have  our  dangerous  men,  but 
we  have  no  one  in  the  same  class  as  Cle- 
menceau. Such  men  enrage  the  people 
who  know  them,  alarm  the  people  who 
don't,  set  everyone  by  the  ears,  act  as  a 
healthy  irritant  in  days  of  peace,  and  are 

a  public  danger  in  days  of  war. 

***** 

But  this  is  digression.    I  had  set  out  to 
say  something  of  a  day's  experience  of  the 
French  front,  though  I  shall  write  with  a 
[63] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

fuller  pen  when  I  return  from  the  Argonne. 
It  was  for  Soissons  that  we  made,  pass- 
ing on  the  way  a  part  of  the  scene  of  our 
own  early  operations,  including  the  battle- 
field of  Villers  Cotteret — just  such  a  wood 
as  I  had  imagined.  My  companion's 
nephew  was  one  of  those  Guards'  officers 
whose  bodies  rest  now  in  the  village  ceme- 
tery, with  a  little  British  Jack  still  flying 
above  them.  They  lie  together,  and  their 
grave  is  tended  with  pious  care.  Among 
the  trees  beside  the  road  were  other  graves 
of  soldiers,  buried  where  they  had  fallen. 
"So  look  around — and  choose  your  ground 
— and  take  your  rest." 

Soissons  is  a  considerable  wreck,  though 
it  is  very  far  from  being  an  Ypres.  But 
the  cathedral  would,  and  will,  make  many 
a  patriotic  Frenchman  weep.  These  sav- 
ages cannot  keep  their  hands  off  a  beauti- 
ful church.  Here,  absolutely  unchanged 
through  the  ages,  was  the  spot  where  St. 
Louis  had  dedicated  himself  to  the  Cru- 
sade. Every  stone  of  it  was  holy.  And 
now  the  lovely  old  stained  glass  strews  the 

[64] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH   LINE 

floor,  and  the  roof  lies  in  a  huge  heap 
across  the  central  aisle.  A  dog  was  climb- 
ing over  it  as  we  entered.  No  wonder  the 
French  fight  well.  Such  sights  would 
drive  the  mildest  man  to  desperation.  The 
abbe,  a  good  priest,  with  a  large  humorous 
face,  took  us  over  his  shattered  domain. 
He  was  full  of  reminiscences  of  the  Ger- 
man occupation  of  the  place.  One  of  his 
personal  anecdotes  was  indeed  marvellous. 
It  was  that  a  lady  in  the  local  ambulance 
had  vowed  to  kiss  the  first  French  soldier 
who  re-entered  the  town.  She  did  so,  and 
it  proved  to  be  her  husband.  The  abbe 
is  a  good,  kind,  truthful  man — but  he  has 
a  humorous  face. 

A  walk  down  a  ruined  street  brings  one 
to  the  opening  of  the  trenches.  There  are 
marks  upon  the  walls  of  the  German  occu- 
pation. "Berlin — Paris,"  with  an  arrow 
of  direction,  adorns  one  corner.  At  an- 
other the  76th  Regiment  have  commemo- 
rated the  fact  that  they  were  there  in  1870 
and  again  in  1914.  If  the  Soissons  folk 
are  wise  they  will  keep  these  inscriptions 
[65] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

as  a  reminder  to  the  rising  generation.  I 
can  imagine,  however,  that  their  inclina- 
tion will  be  to  whitewash,  fumigate,  and 
forget. 

A  sudden  turn  among  some  broken  walls 
takes  one  into  the  communication  trench. 
Our  guide  is  a  Commandant  of  the  Staff, 
a  tall,  thin  man  with  hard,  grey  eyes  and 
a  severe  face.  It  is  the  more  severe  to- 
wards us  as  I  gather  that  he  has  been  de- 
luded into  the  belief  that  about  one  out 
of  six  of  our  soldiers  goes  to  the  trenches. 
For  the  moment  he  is  not  friends  with  the 
English.  As  we  go  along,  however,  we 
gradually  get  upon  better  terms,  we  dis- 
cover a  twinkle  in  the  hard,  grey  eyes, 
and  the  day  ends  with  an  exchange  of 
walking-sticks  and  a  renewal  of  the  En- 
tente. May  my  cane  grow  into  a  mar- 
shal's baton. 

^P  1*  *I*  ^* 

A  charming  young  artillery  subaltern  is 
our  guide  in  that  maze  of  trenches,  and 
we  walk  and  walk  and  walk,  with  a  brisk 
exchange    of    compliments    between    the 

[66] 


A    GLIMPSE   OF   THE    FRENCH    LINE 

"75's"  of  the  French  and  the  "77's"  of  the 
Germans  going  on  high  over  our  heads. 
The  trenches  are  boarded  at  the  sides,  and 
have  a  more  permanent  look  than  those  of 
Flanders.  Presently  we  meet  a  fine, 
brown-faced,  upstanding  boy,  as  keen  as 
a  razor,  who  commands  this  particular  sec- 
tion. A  little  further  on  a  helmeted  cap- 
tain of  infantry,  who  is  an  expert  sniper, 
joins  our  little  party.  Now  we  are  at  the 
very  front  trench.  I  had  expected  to  see 
primeval  men,  bearded  and  shaggy.  But 
the  "Poilus"  have  disappeared.  The  men 
around  me  were  clean  and  dapper  to  a 
remarkable  degree.  I  gathered,  however, 
that  they  had  their  internal  difficulties.  On 
one  board  I  read  an  old  inscription,  "He 
is  a  Boche,  but  he  is  the  inseparable  com- 
panion of  a  French  soldier."  Above  was 
a  rude  drawing  of  a  louse. 

I  am  led  to  a  cunning  loop-hole,  and 
have  a  glimpse  through  it  of  a  little  framed 
picture  of  French  countryside.  There  are 
fields,  a  road,  a  sloping  hill  beyond  with 
trees.  Quite  close,  about  thirty  or  fortv 
[67] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

yards  away,  was  a  low,  red-tiled  house. 
"They  are  there,"  said  our  guide.  "That 
is  their  outpost.  We  can  hear  them 
cough."  Only  the  guns  were  coughing  that 
morning,  so  we  heard  nothing,  but  it  was 
certainly  wonderful  to  be  so  near  to  the 
enemy  and  yet  in  such  peace.  I  suppose 
wondering  visitors  from  Berlin  are 
brought  up  also  to  hear  the  French  cough. 
Modern  warfare  has  certainly  some  ex- 
traordinary sides. 

Now  we  are  shown  all  the  devices  which 
a  year  of  experience  has  suggested  to  the 
quick  brains  of  our  Allies.  It  is  ground 
upon  which  one  cannot  talk  with  freedom. 
Every  form  of  bomb,  catapult,  and  trench 
mortar  was  ready  to  hand.  Every  method 
of  cross-fire  had  been  thought  out  to  an 
exact  degree.  There  was  something,  how- 
ever, about  the  disposition  of  a  machine 
gun  which  disturbed  the  Commandant. 
He  called  for  the  officer  of  the  gun.  His 
thin  lips  got  thinner  and  his  grey  eyes 
more  austere  as  we  waited.  Presently 
there  emerged  an  extraordinarily  hand- 

[68] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH   LINE 

some  youth,  dark  as  a  Spaniard,  from 
some  rabbit  hole.  He  faced  the  Com- 
mandant bravely,  and  answered  back  with 
respect  but  firmness.  "Pourquoi?"  asked 
the  Commandant,  and  yet  again  "Pour- 
quoi?" Adonis  had  an  answer  for  every- 
thing. Both  sides  appealed  to  the  big 
Captain  of  Snipers,  who  was  clearly  em- 
barrassed. He  stood  on  one  leg  and 
scratched  his  chin.  Finally  the  Com- 
mandant turned  away  angrily  in  the  midst 
of  one  of  Adonis'  voluble  sentences.  His 
face  showed  that  the  matter  was  not  ended. 
War  is  taken  very  seriously  in  the  French 
army,  and  any  sort  of  professional  mis- 
take is  very  quickly  punished.  I  have 
been  told  how  many  officers  of  high  rank 
have  been  broken  by  the  French  during 
the  war.  The  figure  was  a  very  high  one. 
There  is  no  more  forgiveness  for  the 
beaten  General  than  there  was  in  the  days 
of  the  Republic  when  the  delegate  of  the 
National  Convention,  with  a  patent  port- 
able guillotine,  used  to  drop  in  at  head- 
[69] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

quarters  to  support  a  more  vigorous  of- 
fensive. 

***** 

As  I  write  these  lines  there  is  a  burst  of 
bugles  in  the  street,  and  I  go  to  my  open 
window  to  see  the  41st  of  the  line  march 
down  into  what  may  develop  into  a  con- 
siderable battle.  How  I  wish  they  could 
march  down  the  Strand  even  as  they  are. 
How  London  would  rise  to  them !  Laden 
like  donkeys,  with  a  pile  upon  their  backs 
and  very  often  both  hands  full  as  well, 
they  still  get  a  swing  into  their  march 
which  it  is  good  to  see.  They  march  in 
column  of  platoons,  and  the  procession  is 
a  long  one,  for  a  French  regiment  is,  of 
course,  equal  to  three  battalions.  The  men 
are  shortish,  very  thick,  burned  brown  in 
the  sun,  with  never  a  smile  among  them — 
have  I  not  said  that  they  are  going  down 
to  a  grim  sector? — but  with  faces  of  gran- 
ite. There  was  a  time  when  we  talked  of 
stiffening  the  French  army.  I  am  pre- 
pared to  believe  that  our  first  expedition- 
ary force  was  capable  of  stiffening  any 

[70] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH   LINE 

conscript  army,  for  I  do  not  think  that  a 
finer  force  ever  went  down  to  battle.  But 
to  talk  about  stiffening  these  people  now 
would  be  ludicrous.  You  might  as  well 
stiffen  the  old  Guard.  There  may  be  weak 
regiments  somewhere,  but  I  have  never 
seen  them. 

I  think  that  an  injustice  has  been  done 
to  the  French  army  by  the  insistence  of 
artists  and  cinema  operators  upon  the 
picturesque  Colonial  corps.  One  gets  an 
idea  that  Arabs  and  negroes  are  pulling 
France  out  of  the  fire.  It  is  absolutely 
false.  Her  own  brave  sons  are  doing  the 
work.  The  Colonial  element  is  really  a 
very  small  one — so  small  that  I  have  not 
seen  a  single  unit  during  all  my  French 
wanderings.  The  Colonials  are  good  men, 
but  like  our  splendid  Highlanders  they 
catch  the  eye  in  a  way  which  is  sometimes 
a  little  hard  upon  their  neighbours.  When 
there  is  hard  work  to  be  done  it  is  the 
good  little  French  piou-piou  who  usually 
has  to  do  it.  There  is  no  better  man  in 
[71] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

Europe.    If  we  are  as  good — and  I  believe 
we  are — it  is  something  to  be  proud  of. 

*  ^tv  yf:  "Vfz 

But  I  have  wandered  far  from  the 
trenches  of  Soissons.  It  had  come  on  to 
rain  heavily,  and  we  were  forced  to  take 
refuge  in  the  dug-out  of  the  sniper.  Eight 
of  us  sat  in  the  deep  gloom  huddled  closely 
together.  The  Commandant  was  still 
harping  upon  that  ill-placed  machine  gun. 
He  could  not  get  over  it.  My  imperfect 
ear  for  French  could  not  follow  all  his  com- 
plaints, but  some  defence  of  the  offender 
brought  forth  a  "Jamais!  Jamais!  Ja- 
mais!" which  was  rapped  out  as  if  it  came 
from  the  gun  itself.  There  were  eight  of 
us  in  an  underground  burrow,  and  some 
were  smoking.  Better  a  deluge  than  such 
an  atmosphere  as  that.  But  if  there  is  a 
thing  upon  earth  which  the  French  officer 
shies  at  it  is  rain  and  mud.  The  reason 
is  that  he  is  extraordinarily  natty  in  his 
person.  His  charming  blue  uniform,  his 
facings,  his  brown  gaiters,  boots  and  belts 
are  always  just  as  smart  as  paint.     He 

[W] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH   LINE 

is  the  Dandy  of  the  European  war.  I 
noticed  officers  in  the  trenches  with  their 
trousers  carefully  pressed.  It  is  all  to 
the  good,  I  think.  Wellington  said  that 
the  dandies  made  his  best  officers.  It  is 
difficult  for  the  men  to  get  rattled  or 
despondent  when  they  see  the  debonair 
appearance  of  their  leaders. 

Among  the  many  neat  little  marks  upon 
the  French  uniforms  which  indicate  with 
precision  but  without  obtrusion  the  rank 
and  arm  of  the  wearer,  there  was  one 
which  puzzled  me.  It  was  to  be  found  on 
the  left  sleeve  of  men  of  all  ranks,  from 
generals  to  privates,  and  it  consisted  of 
small  gold  chevrons,  one,  two,  or  more. 
No  rule  seemed  to  regulate  them,  for  the 
general  might  have  none,  and  I  have 
heard  of  the  private  who  wore  ten.  Then 
I  solved  the  mystery.  They  are  the 
record  of  wounds  received.  What  an  ad- 
mirable idea!  Surely  we  should  hasten 
to  introduce  it  among  our  own  soldiers. 
It  costs  little  and  it  means  much.  If  you 
can  allay  the  smart  of  a  wound  by  the 
[73] 


A   VISIT   TO    THREE    FRONTS 

knowledge  that  it  brings  lasting  honour  to 
the  man  among  his  fellows,  then  surely  it 
should  be  done.  Medals,  too,  are  more 
freely  distributed  and  with  more  public 
parade  than  in  our  service.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  the  effect  is  good. 

***** 

The  rain  has  now  stopped,  and  we  climb 
from  our  burrow.    Again  we  are  led  down 
that  endless  line  of  communication  trench, 
again  we  stumble  through  the  ruins,  again 
we  emerge  into  the  street  where  our  cars 
are  awaiting  us.     Above  our  heads  the 
sharp  artillery  duel  is  going  merrily  for- 
ward.   The  French  are  firing  three  or  four 
to  one,  which  has  been  my  experience  at 
every  point  I  have  touched  upon  the  Al- 
lied front.     Thanks  to  the  extraordinary 
zeal  of  the  French  workers,  especially  of 
the   French   women,    and   to   the   clever 
adaptation    of    machinery    by    their    en- 
gineers,   their    supplies    are    abundant. 
Even  now  they  turn  out  more  shells  a 
day  than  we  do.    That,  however,  excludes 
our  supply  for  the  Fleet.     But  it  is  one 

[74] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF    THE    FRENCH    LINE 

of  the  miracles  of  the  war  that  the  French, 
with  their  coal  and  iron  in  the  hands  of 
the  enemy,  have  been  able  to  equal  the 
production  of  our  great  industrial  cen- 
tres. The  steel,  of  course,  is  supplied  by 
us.  To  that  extent  we  can  claim  credit 
for  the  result. 

And  so,  after  the  ceremony  of  the  walk- 
ing sticks,  we  bid  adieu  to  the  lines  of 
Soissons.  To-morrow  we  start  for  a 
longer  tour  to  the  more  formidable  dis- 
trict of  the  Argonne,  the  neighbour  of 
Verdun,  and  itself  the  scene  of  so  much 
that  is  glorious  and  tragic. 

II 

There  is  a  couplet  of  Stevenson's 
which  haunts  me,  "There  fell  a  war  in 
a  woody  place — in  a  land  beyond  the 
sea."  I  have  just  come  back  from  spend- 
ing three  wonderful  dream  days  in  that 
woody  place.  It  lies  with  the  open,  bosky 
country  of  Verdun  on  its  immediate  right, 
and  the  chalk  downs  of  Champagne  upon 
[75] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

its  left.  If  one  could  imagine  the  lines 
being  taken  right  through  our  New  Forest 
or  the  American  Adirondacks  it  would 
give  some  idea  of  the  terrain,  save  that  it 
is  a  very  undulating  country  of  abrupt  hills 
and  dales.  It  is  this  peculiarity  which  has 
made  the  war  on  this  front  different  to 
any  other,  more  picturesque  and  more 
secret.  In  front  the  fighting  lines  are  half 
in  the  clay  soil,  half  behind  the  shelter  of 
fallen  trunks.  Between  the  two  the  main 
bulk  of  the  soldiers  live  like  animals  of 
the  woodlands,  burrowing  on  the  hillsides 
and  among  the  roots  of  the  trees.  It  is  a 
war  by  itself,  and  a  very  wonderful  one 
to  see. 

At  three  different  points  I  have  visited 
the  front  in  this  broad  region,  wandering 
from  the  lines  of  one  army  corps  to  that 
of  another.  In  all  three  I  found  the  same 
conditions,  and  in  all  three  I  found  also 
the  same  pleasing  fact  which  I  had  dis- 
covered at  Soissons,  that  the  fire  of  the 
French  was  at  least  five,  and  very  often 
ten  shots  to  one  of  the  Boche.    It  used  not 

[76] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE    FRENCH    LINE 

to  be  so.  The  Germans  used  to  scrupu- 
lously return  shot  for  shot.  But  whether 
they  have  moved  their  guns  to  the  neigh- 
bouring Verdun,  or  whether,  as  is  more 
likely,  all  the  munitions  are  going  there, 
it  is  certain  that  they  were  very  outclassed 
upon  the  three  days  (June  10,  11,  12) 
which  I  allude  to.  There  were  signs  that 
for  some  reason  their  spirits  were  at  a  low 
ebb.  On  the  evening  before  our  arrival 
the  French  had  massed  all  their  bands  at 
the  front,  and,  in  honour  of  the  Russian 
victory,  had  played  the  Marseillaise  and 
the  Russian  National  hymn,  winding  up 
with  general  shoutings  and  objurgations 
calculated  to  annoy.  Failing  to  stir  up  the 
Boche,  they  had  ended  by  a  salute  from 
a  hundred  shotted  guns.  After  trailing 
their  coats  up  and  down  the  line  they  had 
finally  to  give  up  the  attempt  to  draw 
the  enemy.  Want  of  food  may  possibly 
have  caused  a  decline  in  the  German  spirit. 
There  is  some  reason  to  believe  that  they 
feed  up  their  fighting  men  at  the  places 
like  Verdun  or  Hooge,  where  they  need 
[77] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

all  their  energy,  at  the  expense  of  the  men 
who  are  on  the  defensive.  If  so,  we  may 
find  it  out  when  we  attack.  The  French 
officers  assured  me  that  the  prisoners  and 
deserters  made  bitter  complaints  of  their 
scale  of  rations.  And  yet  it  is  hard  to 
believe  that  the  fine  efforts  of  our  enemy 
at  Verdun  are  the  work  of  half-starved 
men. 

*jfc  *j£.  jtft  .Ntf. 

/p»  T*  1^  /|^ 

To  return  to  my  personal  impressions, 
it  was  at  Chalons  that  we  left  the  Paris 
train — a  town  which  was  just  touched  by 
the  most  forward  ripple  of  the  first  great 
German  floodtide.  A  drive  of  some 
twenty  miles  took  us  to  St.  Menehould, 
and  another  ten  brought  us  to  the  front 
in  the  sector  of  Divisional- General  H. 
A  fine  soldier  this,  and  heaven  help  Ger- 
many if  he  and  his  division  get  within  its 
borders,  for  he  is,  as  one  can  see  at  a 
glance,  a  man  of  iron  who  has  been  goaded 
to  fierceness  by  all  that  his  beloved  coun- 
try has  endured.  He  is  a  man  of  middle 
size,  swarthy,  hawk-like,  very  abrupt  in 

[78] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF    THE    FRENCH    LINE 

his  movements,  with  two  steel  grey  eyes, 
which  are  the  most  searching  that  mine 
have  ever  met.  His  hospitality  and 
courtesy  to  us  were  beyond  all  bounds, 
but  there  is  another  side  to  him,  and  it  is 
one  which  it  is  wiser  not  to  provoke.  In 
person  he  took  us  to  his  lines,  passing 
through  the  usual  shot-torn  villages  be- 
hind them.  Where  the  road  dips  down 
into  the  great  forest  there  is  one  particular 
spot  which  is  visible  to  the  German  artil- 
lery observers.  The  General  mentioned  it 
at  the  time,  but  his  remark  seemed  to  have 
no  personal  interest.  We  understood  it 
better  on  our  return  in  the  evening. 

Now  we  found  ourselves  in  the  depths 
of  the  woods,  primeval  woods  of  oak  and 
beech  in  the  deep  clay  soil  that  the  great 
oak  loves.  There  had  been  rain  and  the 
forest  paths  were  ankle  deep  in  mire. 
Everywhere,  to  right  and  left,  soldiers' 
faces,  hard  and  rough  from  a  year  of 
open  air,  gazed  up  at  us  from  their  bur- 
rows in  the  ground.  Presently  an  alert, 
blue-clad  figure  stood  in  the  path  to  greet 
[79] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

us.  It  was  the  Colonel  of  the  sector.  He 
was  ridiculously  like  Cyrano  de  Bergerac 
as  depicted  by  the  late  M.  Coquelin,  save 
that  his  nose  was  of  more  moderate  pro- 
portion. The  ruddy  colouring,  the  bris- 
tling feline  full-ended  moustache,  the 
solidity  of  pose,  the  backward  tilt  of  the 
head,  the  general  suggestion  of  the  ban- 
tam cock,  were  all  there  facing  us  as  he 
stood  amid  the  leaves  in  the  sunlight. 
Gauntlets  and  a  long  rapier — nothing  else 
was  wanting.  Something  had  amused 
Cyrano.  His  moustache  quivered  with 
suppressed  mirth,  and  his  blue  eyes  were 
demurely  gleaming.  Then  the  joke  came 
out.  He  had  spotted  a  German  working 
party,  his  guns  had  concentrated  on  it, 
and  afterwards  he  had  seen  the  stretchers 
go  forward.  A  grim  joke,  it  may  seem. 
But  the  French  see  this  war  from  a  dif- 
ferent angle  to  us.  If  we  had  the  Boche 
sitting  on  our  heads  for  two  years,  and 
were  not  yet  quite  sure  whether  we  could 
ever  get  him  off  again,  we  should  get 
Cyrano's  point  of  view.    Those  of  us  who 

[80] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH   LINE 

have  had  our  folk  murdered  by  Zeppelins 
or  tortured  in  German  prisons  have  prob- 
ably got  it  already. 

7j?  "?(C  ^  "«T»  ^ 

We  passed  in  a  little  procession  among 
the  French  soldiers,  and  viewed  their 
multifarious  arrangements.  For  them  we 
were  a  little  break  in  a  monotonous  life, 
and  they  formed  up  in  lines  as  we  passed. 
My  own  British  uniform  and  the  civilian 
dresses  of  my  two  companions  interested 
them.  As  the  General  passed  these 
groups,  who  formed  themselves  up  in  per- 
haps a  more  familiar  manner  than  would 
have  been  usual  in  the  British  service,  he 
glanced  kindly  at  them  with  those  singular 
eyes  of  his,  and  once  or  twice  addressed 
them  as  "Mes  enfants."  One  might  con- 
ceive that  all  was  "go  as  you  please" 
among  the  French.  So  it  is  as  long  as 
you  go  in  the  right  way.  When  you  stray 
from  it  you  know  it.  As  we  passed  a 
group  of  men  standing  on  a  low  ridge 
which  overlooked  us  there  was  a  sudden 
stop.  I  gazed  round.  The  General's  face 
[81] 


A   VISIT   TO   THREE    FRONTS 

was  steel  and  cement.  The  eyes  were  cold 
and  yet  fiery,  sunlight  upon  icicles.  Some- 
thing had  happened.  Cyrano  had  sprung 
to  his  side.  His  reddish  moustache  had 
shot  forward  beyond  his  nose,  and  it  bris- 
tled out  like  that  of  an  angry  cat.  Both 
were  looking  up  at  the  group  above  us. 
One  wretched  man  detached  himself  from 
his  comrades  and  sidled  down  the  slope. 
No  skipper  and  mate  of  a  Yankee  blood 
boat  could  have  looked  more  ferociously 
at  a  mutineer.  And  yet  it  was  all  over 
some  minor  breach  of  discipline  which  was 
summarily  disposed  of  by  two  days  of  con- 
finement. Then  in  an  instant  the  faces 
relaxed,  there  was  a  general  buzz  of  relief 
and  we  were  back  at  "Mes  enfants"  again. 
But  don't  make  any  mistake  as  to  disci- 
pline in  the  French  army. 

Trenches  are  trenches,  and  the  main 
specialty  of  these  in  the  Argonne  is  that 
they  are  nearer  to  the  enemy.  In  fact 
there  are  places  where  they  interlock,  and 
where  the  advanced  posts  lie  cheek  by  jowl 
with  a  good  steel  plate  to  cover  both  cheek 

[82] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH   LINE 

and  jowl.  We  were  brought  to  a  sap  head 
where  the  Germans  were  at  the  other  side 
of  a  narrow  forest  road.  Had  I  leaned 
forward  with  extended  hand  and  a  Boche 
done  the  same  we  could  have  touched. 
I  looked  across,  but  saw  only  a  tangle 
of  wire  and  sticks.    Even  whispering  was 

not  permitted  in  these  forward  posts. 

***** 

When  we  emerged  from  these  hushed 
places  of  danger  Cyrano  took  us  all  to 
his  dug-out,  which  was  a  tasty  little  cot- 
tage carved  from  the  side  of  a  hill  and 
faced  with  logs.  He  did  the  honours  of 
the  humble  cabin  with  the  air  of  a  seigneur 
in  his  chateau.  There  was  little  furniture, 
but  from  some  broken  mansion  he  had  ex- 
tracted an  iron  fire-back,  which  adorned 
his  grate.  It  was  a  fine,  mediaeval  bit  of 
work,  with  Venus,  in  her  traditional  cos- 
tume, in  the  centre  of  it.  It  seemed  the 
last  touch  in  the  picture  of  the  gallant, 
virile  Cyrano.  I  only  met  him  this  once, 
nor  shall  I  ever  see  him  again,  yet  he  stands 
a  thing  complete  within  my  memory. 
[83] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS 

Even  now  as  I  write  these  lines  he  walks 
the  leafy  paths  of  the  Argonne,  his  fierce 
eyes  ever  searching  for  the  Boche  workers, 
his  red  moustache  bristling  over  their  an- 
nihilation. He  seems  a  figure  out  of  the 
past  of  France. 

That  night  we  dined  with  yet  another 
type  of  the  French  soldier,  General  A., 
who  commands  the  corps  of  which  my 
friend  has  one  division.  Each  of  these 
French  generals  has  a  striking  individual- 
ity of  his  own  which  I  wish  I  could  fix 
upon  paper.  Their  only  common  point  is 
that  each  seems  to  be  a  rare  good  soldier. 
The  corps  General  is  Athos  with  a  touch 
of  d'Artagnan.  He  is  well  over  six  feet 
high,  bluff,  jovial,  with  huge,  upcurling 
moustache,  and  a  voice  that  would  rally 
a  regiment.  It  is  a  grand  figure  which 
should  have  been  done  by  Van  Dyck  with 
lace  collar,  hand  on  sword,  and  arm 
akimbo.  Jovial  and  laughing  was  he,  but 
a  stern  and  hard  soldier  was  lurking  be- 
hind the  smiles.  His  name  may  appear 
in  history,  and  so  may  Humbert's,  who 

[84] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH   LINE 

rules  all  the  army  of  which  the  other's 
corps  is  a  unit.  Humbert  is  a  Lord 
Robert's  figure,  small,  wiry,  quick-step- 
ping, all  steel  and  elastic,  with  a  short, 
sharp  upturned  moustache,  which  one 
could  imagine  as  crackling  with  electric- 
ity in  moments  of  excitement  like  a  cat's 
fur.  What  he  does  or  says  is  quick, 
abrupt,  and  to  the  point.  He  fires  his  re- 
marks like  pistol  shots  at  this  man  or 
that.  Once  to  my  horror  he  fixed  me 
with  his  hard  little  eyes  and  demanded, 
"Sherlock  Holmes,  est  ce  qu'il  est  un 
soldat  dans  l'armee  Anglaise?"  The 
whole  table  waited  in  an  awful  hush. 
"Mais,  mon  general,"  I  stammered,  "II 
est  trop  vieux  pour  service."  There  was 
general  laughter,  and  I  felt  that  I  had 
scrambled  out  of  an  awkward  place. 

And  talking  of  awkward  places,  I  had 
forgotten  about  that  spot  upon  the  road 
whence  the  Boche  observer  could  see  our 
motor-cars.  He  had  actually  laid  a  gun 
upon  it,  the  rascal,  and  waited  all  the  long- 
day  for  our  return.  No  sooner  did  we 
[85] 


A   VISIT   TO    THREE   FRONTS 

appear  upon  the  slope  than  a  shrapnel 
shell  burst  above  us,  but  somewhat  behind 
me,  as  well  as  to  the  left.  Had  it  been 
straight  the  second  car  would  have  got 
it,  and  there  might  have  been  a  vacancy 
in  one  of  the  chief  editorial  chairs  in  Lon- 
don. The  General  shouted  to  the  driver 
to  speed  up,  and  we  were  soon  safe  from 
the  German  gunners.  One  gets  perfectly 
immune  to  noises  in  these  scenes,  for  the 
guns  which  surround  you  make  louder 
crashes  than  any  shell  which  bursts  about 
you.  It  is  only  when  you  actually  see 
the  cloud  over  you  that  your  thoughts 
come  back  to  yourself,  and  that  you  realise 
that  in  this  wonderful  drama  you  may  be 
a  useless  super,  but  none  the  less  you 
are  on  the  stage  and  not  in  the  stalls. 

*t*  *l*  *T">  *F 

Next  morning  we  were  down  in  the 
front  trenches  again  at  another  portion  of 
the  line.  Far  away  on  our  right,  from  a 
spot  named  the  Observatory,  we  could  see 
the  extreme  left  of  the  Verdun  position 
and  shells  bursting  on  the  Fille  Morte. 

[86] 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FKENCH    LINE 

To  the  north  of  us  was  a  broad  expanse 
of  sunny  France,  nestling  villages,  scat- 
tered chateaux,  rustic  churches,  and  all  as 
inaccessible  as  if  it  were  the  moon.  It  is 
a  terrible  thing  this  German  bar — a  thing 
unthinkable  to  Britons.  To  stand  on  the 
edge  of  Yorkshire  and  look  into  Lanca- 
shire feeling  that  it  is  in  other  hands,  that 
our  fellow-countrymen  are  suffering  there 
and  waiting,  waiting,  for  help,  and  that 
we  cannot,  after  two  years,  come  a  yard 
nearer  to  them — would  it  not  break  our 
hearts?  Can  I  wonder  that  there  is  no 
smile  upon  the  grim  faces  of  these  French- 
men! But  when  the  bar  is  broken,  when 
the  line  sweeps  forward,  as  most  surely  it 
will,  when  French  bayonets  gleam  on 
yonder  uplands  and  French  flags  break 
from  those  village  spires — ah,  what  a  day 
that  will  be !  Men  will  die  that  day  from 
the  pure,  delirious  joy  of  it.  We  cannot 
think  what  it  means  to  France,  and  the 
less  so  because  she  stands  so  nobly  patient 
waiting  for  her  hour. 

Yet  another  type  of  French  general 
[87] 


A   VISIT   TO    THREE    FRONTS 

takes  us  round  this  morning!  He,  too, 
is  a  man  apart,  an  unforgettable  man. 
Conceive  a  man  with  a  large  broad  good- 
humoured  face,  and  two  placid,  dark  seal's 
eyes  which  gaze  gently  into  yours.  He  is 
young  and  has  pink  cheeks  and  a  soft 
voice.  Such  is  one  of  the  most  redoubt- 
able fighters  of  France,  this  General  of 
Division  D.  His  former  staff  officers 
told  me  something  of  the  man.  He  is  a 
philosopher,  a  fatalist,  impervious  to  fear, 
a  dreamer  of  distant  dreams  amid  the  most 
furious  bombardment.  The  weight  of  the 
French  assault  upon  the  terrible  labyrinth 
fell  at  one  time  upon  the  brigade  which 
he  then  commanded.  He  led  them  day 
after  day  gathering  up  Germans  with  the 
detached  air  of  the  man  of  science  who  is 
hunting  for  specimens.  In  whatever  shell- 
hole  he  might  chance  to  lunch  he  had  his 
cloth  spread  and  decorated  with  wild 
flowers  plucked  from  the  edge.  If  fate 
be  kind  to  him  he  will  go  far.  Apart 
from  his  valour  he  is  admitted  to  be  one 

[88] 


A    GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH    LINE 

of  the  most  scientific  soldiers  of  France. 

From  the  Observatory  we  saw  the  de- 
struction of  a  German  trench.  There  had 
been  signs  of  work  upon  it,  so  it  was  de- 
cided to  close  it  down.  It  was  a  very 
visible  brown  streak  a  thousand  yards 
away.  The  word  was  passed  back  to  the 
"75 V  in  the  rear.  There  was  a  "tir 
rapide"  over  our  heads.  My  word,  the 
man  who  stands  fast  under  a  "tir  rapide," 
be  he  Boche,  French  or  British,  is  a  man 
of  mettle !  The  mere  passage  of  the  shells 
was  awe-inspiring,  at  first  like  the  scream- 
ing of  a  wintry  wind,  and  then  thickening 
into  the  howling  of  a  pack  of  wolves.  The 
trench  was  a  line  of  terrific  explosions. 
Then  the  dust  settled  down  and  all  was 
still.  Where  were  the  ants  who  had  made 
the  nest?  Were  they  buried  beneath  it? 
Or  had  they  got  from  under?  No  one 
could  say. 

There  was  one  little  gun  which  fasci- 
nated me,  and  I  stood  for  some  time  watch- 
ing it.  Its  three  gunners,  enormous 
helmeted  men,  evidently  loved  it,  and 
[89] 


A    VISIT   TO   THREE   FRONTS 

touched  it  with  a  swift  but  tender  touch 
in  every  movement.  When  it  was  fired 
it  ran  up  an  inclined  plane  to  take  off  the 
recoil,  rushing  up  and  then  turning  and 
rattling  down  again  upon  the  gunners 
who  were  used  to  its  ways.  The  first  time 
it  did  it,  I  was  standing  behind  it,  and 
I  don't  know  which  moved  quickest — the 
gun  or  I. 

French  officers  above  a  certain  rank 
develop  and  show  their  own  individuality. 
In  the  lower  grades  the  conditions  of 
service  enforce  a  certain  uniformity.  The 
British  officer  is  a  British  gentleman  first, 
and  an  officer  afterwards.  The  French- 
man is  an  officer  first,  though  none  the  less 
the  gentleman  stands  behind  it.  One  very 
strange  type  we  met,  however,  in  these 
Argonne  Woods.  He  was  a  French- 
Canadian  who  had  been  a  French  soldier, 
had  founded  a  homestead  in  far  Alberta, 
and  had  now  come  back  of  his  own  will, 
though  a  naturalised  Briton,  to  the  old 
flag.  He  spoke  English  of  a  kind,  the 
quality  and  quantity  being  equally  extra- 

[90] 


A    GLIMPSE   OF   THE   FRENCH    LINE 

ordinary.  It  poured  from  him  and  was, 
so  far  as  it  was  intelligible,  of  the  woolly 
Western  variety.  His  views  on  the  Ger- 
mans were  the  most  emphatic  we  had  met. 
"These  Godam  sons  of" — well,  let  us  say 
"Canines!"  he  would  shriek,  shaking  his 
fist  at  the  woods  to  the  north  of  him.  A 
good  man  was  our  compatriot,  for  he  had 
a  very  recent  Legion  of  Honour  pinned 
upon  his  breast.  He  had  been  put  with 
a  few  men  on  Hill  285,  a  sort  of  volcano 
stuffed  with  mines,  and  was  told  to  tele- 
phone when  he  needed  relief.  He  refused 
to  telephone  and  remained  there  for  three 
weeks.  "We  sit  like  a  rabbit  in  his  hall," 
he  explained.  He  had  only  one  grievance. 
There  were  many  wild  boars  in  the  forest, 
but  the  infantry  were  too  busy  to  get  them. 
"The  Godam  Artillaree  he  get  the  wild 
pig!"  Out  of  his  pocket  he  pulled  a  pic- 
ture of  a  frame-house  with  snow  round  it, 
and  a  lady  with  two  children  on  the  stoop. 
It  was  his  homestead  at  Trochu,  seventy 

miles  north  of  Calgary. 

***** 

[91] 


A   VISIT  TO   THREE   FRONTS    I 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  third  day 
that  we  turned  our  faces  to  Paris  once 
more.  It  was  my  last  view  of  the  French. 
The  roar  of  their  guns  went  far  with  me 
upon  my  way.  Soldiers  of  France,  fare- 
well! In  your  own  phrase  I  salute  you! 
Many  have  seen  you  who  had  more  knowl- 
edge by  which  to  judge  your  manifold 
virtues,  many  also  who  had  mOre  skill  to 
draw  you  as  you  are,  but  never  one,  I  am 
sure,  who  admired  you  more  than  I. 
Great  was  the  French  soldier  under  Louis 
the  Sun-King,  great  too  under  Napoleon, 
but  never  was  he  greater  than  to-day. 

And  so  it  is  back  to  England  and  to 
home.  I  feel  sobered  and  solemn  from  all 
that  I  have  seen.  It  is  a  blind  vision  which 
does  not  see  more  than  the  men  and  the 
guns,  which  does  not  catch  something  of 
the  terrific  spiritual  conflict  which  is  at 
the  heart  of  it. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming 

of  the  Lord — 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vineyard  where  the 

grapes  of  wrath  are  stored. 

[92] 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   THE    FRENCH    LINE 

We  have  found  no  inspired  singer  yet, 
like  Julia  Howe,  to  voice  the  divine  mean- 
ing of  it  all — that  meaning  which  is  more 
than  numbers  or  guns  upon  the  day  of  bat- 
tle. But  who  can  see  the  adult  manhood 
of  Europe  standing  in  a  double  line,  wait- 
ing for  a  signal  to  throw  themselves  upon 
each  other,  without  knowing  that  he  has 
looked  upon  the  most  terrific  of  all  the 
dealings  between  the  creature  below  and 
that  great  force  above,  which  works  so 
strangely  towards  some  distant  but 
glorious  end? 


FINIS 


[93] 


J 


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